


Nexus

by spacemonkey



Category: U2
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Masturbation, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2018-06-07 15:16:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 107,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6810706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The phone rang at 4am, and Bono was on the other end with a plan on how they could find that connection they were missing. Edge wasn't quite sure what it was he was agreeing to, but he said yes all the same.</p>
<p>Set in Summer, 1999.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tuesday

**Author's Note:**

> This is how I celebrate Bono's birthday apparently, by posting fic. It seemed like a good plan. I'd intended to write this as one giant fic and post it as a one shot, but....well, that just didn't end up happening. This gives me more time to play, doesn't it? It's going to be a slow burn, slooow, and I will admit that I, an Australian who has never been to France, am pulling a couple of things out of my ass. The cottage is based on a couple of cottages I found on google, and I kinda want to go to France and live in my imaginary cottage with these two idiots. I hope you enjoy, and I hope the next chapter shant be too far away. Unbetad, any mistakes are mine

Thomas Peterson seemed like the sort of man who was permanently annoyed by life and anything that life dared to throw his way. There was a way about him that Edge recognized within the first twenty seconds of meeting the man, an air of _this better be important_ that might have frightened off the weaker man.

The Rolex around his wrist was as real and as new as the BMW he was driving though, and Edge had a feeling that the offer of money fell nicely into the _important_ pile. Thankfully, Bono was never one to scrimp, and Edge knew it couldn’t have been cheap. Not on such short notice. Not with such a place.

“The cottage itself dates back to the early eighteen hundreds, though they were never entirely sure of the exact year. But it couldn’t have been later than eighteen thirty.”

“Really?” Bono glanced back at the cottage. “Why’s that?”

Thomas gave him a withering look. “Because it couldn’t,” he said, and Edge only just managed to catch Bono’s smile. “My father in law bought the property in the early seventies after years of abandonment. He’d been more interested in the land itself, and was going to knock the building down and start all over again.” Thomas shrugged. “He changed his mind.”

“Well, thank God he did, Tom,” Bono said. Thomas shot him another look, and it was all Edge could do to keep the smile off his face. Bono was more successful, though Edge could still see it in the way his nostrils flared. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought Bono was expecting such a reaction.

“Thomas. Please. Personally, I don’t answer to Tom.”

“Oh, neither do I.”

“It’s beautiful, Mr. Peterson,” Edge cut in quickly, before the fireworks could start. Bono smiled, shrugged, and they both watched him amble towards the cottage, hand stretched out before he was even close to touching the stone walls. When Thomas turned back, the lines on his face had softened considerably. Edge could relate, and it was only day one. “Your father in law did a wonderful job.”

“He did.” Thomas smiled, and it was like a different man entirely. “My wife and I took over after he passed. We renovated it again only last year, in fact. The plumbing was rubbish.”

“Well, you can’t have that.”

“No,” Thomas agreed, and Edge nodded. He smiled, and Thomas nodded back before looking to that brand new Rolex, and it was such a simple action and yet it made Edge feel like he was three feet tall. His eye twitched, and Edge rubbed it as discreetly as he could, turning his head towards where Bono had been not one minute before. He blinked away the blur, then frowned.

Bono had disappeared, off exploring around the side of the house no doubt, and it was strange, the lack of noise. No footsteps against the ground, no hint of the traffic further along the way, and no one struggling to be heard over the music that was good, maybe even great in parts, but just not there yet. There was nothing but silence, stretching on until it became uncomfortable.

“So, do you live in France then?” he asked when he couldn’t stand it any longer, and he hoped that there was a story there, something longer than a simple _yes_.

“Oh, for most of the year, but our children are back home in London, so.” Thomas shrugged. “You do what you have to do.”

“It’s all you can do,” Edge agreed. “Bono and I have a house in Èze actually.”

The eyebrows went up, and Thomas looked lost for words for all of a moment before he exclaimed, “Together?”

It was not exactly a reaction Edge had expected from someone who was about to hand the keys over to only the two of them, and he wasn’t entirely sure how to play it. It was tempting to start something, to make him wonder for the next two weeks, but he wasn’t feeling quick at all, and the crunch of Bono’s footsteps stopped Edge before he could come up with anything good.

“There’s a lake, Edge,” Bono said, with his grin suggesting the water could only be made of liquid gold. “You never mentioned a lake, Thomas.”

Thomas smiled thinly. “You never asked.” He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and held them out for Edge to take. “It’s a short drive to Uzès, or there’s a private little path that cuts through the trees.” He pointed past the cottage, but all Edge could see was green. “It connects with the road further on. Lovely walk.”

Bono nodded. “I saw a couple of bicycles by the-”

“Or you could ride,” Thomas said. “However you choose to go, really. There’s a market in town every Saturday, so you’ll want to go then. I’ve left plenty of food for you, but there will be things you’ll be needing by Saturday.” He paused, giving Bono a thoughtful look. “One of you can cook, right?”

Bono waved a hand. “Oh cooking’s not important, Thomas, as long as there’s plenty of wine.”

They watched Thomas drive away, waving like they were bidding farewell to passengers on a ship until his car was almost out of view. There was a moment where Edge didn’t quite know what to do next, and then Bono sighed. “There goes my biggest fan,” he murmured.

The cottage was smaller than what Edge had pictured when Bono sold it to him - _there’s a whole floor just for the bedrooms, Edge, I swear, it’ll be great_ \- but really, Edge had never much thought of a cottage as being something overly gigantic. It was more than big enough for two small Irishmen, he was sure, though he’d been sure of that a few times over the years. Sometimes, he had been right. Other times, Bono had made him regret ever thinking such a thing.

But Edge was feeling positive this time around.

They had two weeks, two weeks alone, and Edge hadn’t been all that excited leading up to it. He still wasn’t entirely sure how Bono had talked him into it, but it had only taken one phone call.

Bono had been loud and excited, halfway across the world, and Edge had still been half asleep. He’d stared glumly at the glowing red numbers of the digital clock until Morleigh had all but kicked him out of bed. “It’s four am, Bono,” he’d said, after closing the bathroom door.

“Oh fuck, of course it is. I’m sorry, Edge,” Bono had rushed out, and he hadn’t sounded sorry in the least. “Did I wake you?”

It hadn’t seemed worth the effort, responding like he’d wanted to.

Edge had sat there on the lid of the toilet, staring glumly at the tiles ahead as Bono had started on about them being one step forward, two steps back, how he’d met William Shatner at a party and it had sparked something, something deep inside of him, and that’s what they had to do. It had taken Edge far too long to realize that Bono was, in his own special way, talking about the album. He’d blamed the early morning wake up; usually he had Bono figured from at least the second sentence.

“I’ve been so busy, Edge,” Bono had said, his voice finally softening. He’d sounded regretful. “Even when I’m there, sometimes I’m not entirely sure I am, you know? I just, I think-”

“What you’re doing is important.”

“I know. I know, but this. This album is important too.” He’d sighed. “It’s not clicking, I realized. We need - I was talking to Shatner last night, Edge. Do you remember when Spock would do that mind meld thing?”

Edge had felt less glum after that, he’d even started laughing, and Bono had been back and forth, about the album, about the party he’d been to, about fucking Star Trek, about how he was sure he could find a week or two in his schedule for them to go find that connection they were missing. Edge had nodded along, said yes when there was a pause, and he’d hung up knowing he’d agreed to _something_ , but mostly he’d been eager to climb back into bed.

A writer’s retreat, Edge had called it later once they’d ironed out the details, and Bono had paused. “No, I just want to go somewhere where we’re alone, you know? Somewhere beautiful and calm, away from all the chaos of life, Edge, where we can just write. Just you and me.”

Edge had nodded. “Right. So, a writer’s retreat then?”

He’d not been all that excited, but it had started creeping up on him as he’d packed his bags, and it had been a strange sort of giddiness that he’d felt as he drove the winding dirt road, turning down the radio so that he could concentrate better on where he was headed. They’d been surrounded by green, the sky a perfect blue, and Bono had been so excited by it all that Edge had been sure he was about to start composing, right there in the passenger seat.

They had two weeks alone, and Edge was glad for it.

It was three small stone steps up to the entrance, the front door painted a deep, glorious red that Bono thought was just brilliant. The windows were painted more of the same, and Edge unlocked the door and followed Bono inside.

“Oh wow,” Bono said, and Edge had to agree. It was like stepping back in time, if you ignored the television set and other little modern touches, and he just had to drag his palm along the wall. It was the same stone, inside and out, and of _course_ it was, but it just felt special tucked away from the breeze. Standing inside,it was easier to see how they could fit two storeys, and he stretched out a hand towards the low-set roof, his fingers brushing the exposed wooden beam.

Bono grinned. “It’s possible we might have been considered tall back then.”

“I don’t think you’d ever be considered tall, B, not even back then,” Edge said, and Bono shoved him. He was laughing though, and he pulled Edge right on back to wrap an arm around his shoulders.

“Size doesn’t matter, Edge, it’s all about stamina.” Bono winked at him. “I can go for hours, you know.”

Edge rolled his eyes as he slipped away. “I’m so glad I came,” he said flatly as he made for the door.

Bono followed him out, looking rather pleased with himself, and supervised Edge removing their luggage from the car until a look was thrown his way. “Do you care what room you get?” he asked as he pulled Edge’s guitar case from the back seat.

“We haven’t even seen the rooms yet, Bono.”

“Yeah, but do you care?”

Edge loudly shut the boot, and found Bono looking expectantly at him. “No,” he said, and it came out sweeter than he’d thought it would. “I don’t care, as long as I have a bed.”

Bono nodded. “Alright. You can pick.” He started back towards the cottage, guitar case in hand, his laptop bag slung over his shoulder. Edge just watched him go.

The bedrooms were practically identical, slanted off-white walls and red floors, and Edge chose the room with the second window - a little thing, set in the middle of the wall above the double bed. There was an ashtray set on the sill but the window didn’t open, and when he peered through the glass, he saw grass and trees and the barest hint of the lake Bono had mentioned, hidden mostly by the green.

The other window was normal sized and it did open, and Edge aired the room while he unpacked a little, hanging up his shirts in the wardrobe and leaving the rest in his suitcase for when he felt like it, whenever that might be. Maybe tomorrow, after a nice, long sleep in. Possibly. Probably not. His clothes were used to weeks in a bag, and he’d used that as an excuse one too many times over the years.

He pulled the sheets back to inspect, though Thomas didn’t seem like the type to miss much. They were clean, soft and smelled like summertime, and Edge kicked his shoes off before stretching out against the bed. It was as comfortable as it had looked, and he sunk further into the pillow and let out a groan that, on reflection, probably sounded more suspect than he’d intended. He could hear Bono fumbling about in his room, making frankly too much noise for someone thought to be unpacking. He stifled a yawn, then stretched until his back popped in all the right places.

They’d left Èze after lunch, but Edge had gotten up with the sun anyway, and he still wasn’t entirely sure why. He’d sat on the balcony, quietly watching the waves as he enjoyed a piece of toast and a cup of coffee, and he’d not been able to recall the last time he’d felt so peaceful.

Bono had been up an hour later, and he’d been talk, talk, talk from the moment his head had left the pillow. Ali had watched him with one hand on her stomach, her eyes sparkling during breakfast and her smile starting to slip during lunch. She’d kissed Edge’s cheek, laughed when Bono had fallen to his knees to kiss her stomach, and Edge had started towards the car when Bono had stood up to give her a proper goodbye.

He’d continued on in the car, asking questions and continuing on before Edge had a chance to answer. It had left Edge wondering if Bono had slipped in another coffee or two before they’d left, and when Bono had gone quiet, Edge figured it had happened. Bono had finally run out of words.

But it had been an odd sort of silence that Bono had slipped into, his gaze fixed out the window, and Edge had turned the music up loud to wash over any uneasiness. Still, he had glanced over at Bono maybe once every minute until they’d gotten closer and Bono had started up again, singing along to the music with a smile on his face.

It had been odd. Even for someone like Bono, who specialized in odd. Sometimes, Edge just didn’t know.

He blinked when Bono’s footsteps thudded against the stairs, and Bono was probably expecting him to follow. Follow and do some exploring, and it had sounded like a good idea before they’d walked up the stairs. Edge turned to watch the pretty white curtains shift against the breeze. There were little pink flowers on the curtains, and Edge could smell them in the air, and he was warm, so lovely and warm.

He jumped when the bed dipped, and Bono smiled down. “You looked so peaceful,” he said.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Edge insisted, blinking till his eyes stopped blurring. He felt a little slow, a little lost, and he wasn’t sure exactly. Maybe he’d just told a lie.

Bono made a face, and Edge knew that face. “Of course not,” Bono said, like he was talking to a child, and Edge nearly shoved him from the bed. “I found the kettle. It was in the cupboard.”

“I didn’t realize it was lost.”

Bono paused. “Come have some tea, Edge.”

It seemed like an idea, though Edge was feeling a little too warm for tea. He shut the window before he left the room, hoping it would be a little cooler downstairs, and he made it all of two steps past the bathroom door before backtracking. They’d stopped early into the drive, a little pub in a little town where no one had given them a second glance, and Edge couldn’t quite figure how many hours had passed since.

He stared at the wall as he peed, still feeling a little foggy, and when he turned, Bono was leaning against the door frame. “What?” Edge asked as he zipped his pants.

Bono shrugged. “Nothin’.” He raised an eyebrow, slipping a hand from his pocket to gesture. “Nice looking bathtub there, Edge, don’t you think?”

The bath hadn’t exactly been on his radar when he’d entered the room, and Edge finished washing his hands before turning to look. It was pretty nice; bright white on the inside, glossy black everywhere else, and it had been a while since Edge had seen brass clawfeet on a bath. The faucets were too shiny to be anything but brand new. “It’s pretty deep,” he said, and Bono stared at him. “What? It is.”

“It’s incredibly inviting,” Bono said after a beat, and Edge could name at least three bathtubs that looked more inviting, and one of them was situated in Bono’s ensuite back home. “I wish we’d come when it was cooler.” He smiled before turning away, and Edge watched him go.

“Right.”

The rest of the bathroom was just as nice, the shower big enough for two with the same shiny faucets as the bath, and the tiles in there a deep grey that blended into more stone wall. The window was set deep into the stone, no curtains, just a simple empty vase that Bono would no doubt want to fill before the week was out.

Edge washed his face with cool water before he left the room, feeling a bit more human as he made his way downstairs.

Bono had the french doors open, but still, it was cooler than it had been upstairs, and Edge stepped out onto the terrace and allowed himself a moment to appreciate Mother Nature before heading towards the kitchen. It was two steps down, terracotta floors complimenting the rich brown cupboards, and Bono was standing in front of the old bread oven, arms folded as he admired it. There was an electric oven next to the fridge, and it looked so boring in comparison. Edge peered over Bono’s shoulder. “Well, I definitely think we could fit you in there.”

“Oh yeah?” Bono grinned back at him. “Gonna cook me up nice and good there, Edge?”

Edge took a step back and looked Bono up and down. “I don’t know,” he said. “That’s a lot of meat for one man, and I only have two weeks.” He jumped away laughing when Bono reached out to smack him.

They sat out on the terrace, Bono sticking with tea while Edge decided on the more refreshing choice of Perrier - lime flavoured to wash away the taste of sleep in his mouth. It was later than Edge had first figured, and once he thought of food, he couldn’t quite get the idea from his mind.

Bono was quiet, but it was different to how he’d been in the car. He looked peaceful, a small smile on his face as he looked out upon the grass, his tea untouched and cooling on the table. Edge watched him until he turned. “I can't hear a thing,” Bono said. “No voices, no ringing phones, there’s only nature.” He gestured to his head, his eyes still distant. “Nothing.”

Edge smiled, and when Bono stood up, he followed. They weren’t getting any work done tonight, he knew, but it was fine. It was all fine.

The lake was bigger than Edge had expected. Life had taught him that Bono and hyperbole made a lovely pair, and he'd figured when Bono had said lake he'd really meant a little pond or something, but the lake stretched out further than he could have imagined. The water looked clean enough, the green of the trees reflecting beautifully, but when Bono stepped closer Edge reached out and grabbed his arm. “Can’t see the bottom,” he explained when Bono frowned at him.

“So?”

Edge pursed his lips, looking out at the water. He didn’t really have a good answer for Bono. “Well,” he said. “You don’t know how deep it is, or what could be in it. There could be carp, or something.”

Bono took a step back, rolling his eyes as he went. “I don’t think there’s carp in there, Edge.” He regarded Edge for a long moment. “Can you imagine how boring life would be,” he said, “if you didn’t take risks?”

“Sure,” Edge said. “But there still could be carp.”

It fell on Edge to make dinner, and he wasn’t really going to complain. When the money had started to roll in Ali had made it perfectly clear that, no, they were not going to employ someone to cook, and yes, Bono was still going to help out from time to time. He’d had his moments in the kitchen over the years - there had been a beef stew that he’d sometimes made when they all lived together that had been particularly inspired- but if Bono wasn’t in the mood, it became painfully clear when it came time to eat.

Bono seemed more interested in what sort of wine selection Thomas had left for them, pulling each bottle out to inspect while Edge scoured the fridge and pantry, looking for inspiration. It was not a day for effort, and when he saw the tin of tomatoes he decided pasta seemed like a brilliant idea.

“Wow.” Bono came up behind him a few minutes later, a bottle in each hand. “Thomas has some seriously good taste in wine, Edge.”

“I’m so glad,” Edge said as he chopped the basil. “Are you planning on choosing a bottle this century?”

They ate out on the terrace, the sun slowly setting over Edge’s shoulder. It had come in overcast, the clouds looking like they might just show some teeth later, and from the way Bono kept on gazing up to the sky, Edge figured it must have been impressive. He was more interested in his food - he’d not realized how hungry he’d been until he’d been standing at the stove with the smell of garlic and tomato invading his entire being - though eventually he did turn.

He’d seen better sunsets, really.

“This pasta is incredible,” Bono said as he set his fork down for a break. “You should cook more, Edge.”

“I should, huh?” Edge rubbed at his neck, trying and failing to keep the smile from his face. The food was nice, one of his better efforts, but he wouldn’t exactly go around calling it incredible. “I do cook more, you just don’t get to eat it.”

“Is that so?”

“That is so, Bono.”

“Hmm.” Bono leaned back in his seat, swirling the wine in his glass as he looked at Edge. There was sauce on his chin, and when Edge smiled, Bono eyes crinkled. “I’m glad we came.”

Edge nodded. “Me too,” he said.

The sun had well and truly set by the time they ventured back inside, Bono closing the french doors behind them, and the cottage was starting to cool nicely. Edge set their dishes in the sink, and when he heard the sigh behind him, he had a feeling he knew exactly what was coming next.

“I think I might go have a bath,” Bono said, and Edge grinned to himself. Completely predictable.

“Alright,” he said as Bono reached for the bottle of wine. “Don’t fall asleep this time.”

Bono glared at him. “It’s been five years, Edge, let it go.” He kept his head turned as he refilled his glass, but they’d had the same conversation enough times that Edge could picture the expression. “And I wasn’t asleep, I was just resting my eyes.”

“Well, you were resting them pretty hard.”

Bono snorted. He threw a hand up in Edge’s face before heading towards the door, calling over his shoulder, “If the general public knew how you talked to me, Edge, there would be outrage!”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Edge muttered as Bono’s laughter rang through the cottage. He listened to Bono’s footsteps thumping against the stairs as he looked at the mess he’d created, trying to find the motivation to do something about it. It just wasn’t coming.

Edge left the dishes to soak, a terrible idea that he’d likely have to deal with come morning. He watched television for a little while but there wasn’t anything on that really excited him, so he got up and walked the house, inspecting all the little nooks and discovering things until there wasn’t anything left to discover. He looked up the stairs, tapping his lips as he considered what to do next. He wasn’t really feeling that tired anymore.

In the end, he found himself walking out the front door with a box of matches and a glass of wine to wash away the taste of garlic that lingered. The night was quite warm, the air still, and past the car there was nothing but darkness. Edge had seen the trees, driven the winding dirt road, but looking out into the black he could almost convince himself they had disappeared. He’d seen bad horror movies that started the same.

They were alone. They were terribly alone. He smiled, staring out at a fixed point in the middle of nothing. For all he knew, someone could have smiled right on back.

He sat down on the red chair that had seen better days, shifted in and waited till it stopped wobbling before making another move. There was a candle in the middle of the table, half melted and a deep red, set on a saucer that could have come straight from his grandmother’s china cabinet. She would have been horrified to see the wax set among the delicate pink roses. He lit the candle and watched the flame flicker for only a moment before he was up out of the rickety chair and reaching a hand inside the door to turn off the outside light.

Edge turned to face the darkness. It was almost perfect. He had half a mind to go coax Bono out of the bath with a second bottle of wine, but it seemed like far too much effort. And really, he was enjoying the calm.

There was always tomorrow. There was always next week. They had plenty of time to waste, plenty of time to sit and stare out at nothing and talk about nothing until the conversation abruptly turned, like it often did out under the stars. “Have you ever stopped to consider the universe?” he’d asked Bono one night, a few years before.

Bono had answered, “Probably not as much as you have.” And he’d smiled, laughed and leaned in close. “Tell me what you see up there, Edge.”

“I see a lot of stars, Bono.”

“Mmm, is that so? There must be more.” He’d been on the right side of drunk, his arm around Edge’s shoulders and his breath warmed by whiskey. “Does she speak to you?”

“Who?”

“Mother Universe.” He’d pulled away, and Edge’s shoulders had felt the loss; suddenly cool on such a warm night. Bono had smiled at him, lopsided and a little stupid. “One day you’ll find out.”

“Find out what?”

“The secret of the Universe,” Bono had said, his expression that of a wise old owl, his body teetering sideways, and Edge had just laughed. Bono had watched him, and the night had turned serious fast.

It wasn’t something Edge wanted to think about. Not tonight.

He settled back down into the rickety chair, the area lit only by the candle and the dim light coming from the window, and he looked to the sky as he drank his wine. There was too much cloud cover to make much sense of it all, and Edge had a feeling they were going to see some rain. He couldn’t quite place where the moon would be if it weren’t tucked away. He was usually distracted by the stars.

The candle flickered once before the night fell back to stillness. It was the sort of setting one might choose to propose, so terribly romantic that Edge was sure he’d struggle to find a better idea when he was good and ready, and there he was, alone with a glass of wine.

Morleigh answered on the fourth ring, and she sounded like she barely had the energy to pick up at all. “Honey. Hello. You should feel extremely guilty, you know.”

“Should I now?”

“Yes, you should. Someone has spent most of the day wanting Daddy, and it sure as hell wasn’t me.”

Edge chuckled. “Alright, I do feel a bit guilty.”

Morleigh sighed, and Edge could see her, on the couch with her feet pulled up under her and her hair frazzled, as beautiful as she’d ever been. “Oh, it’s alright. Really. I don’t know why, honestly she usually gets over you leaving in, like, half an hour.”

“Oh,” Edge said flatly. “She does?”

“Oh yeah, then it’s right back to the Teletubbies,” Morleigh teased. “No, I’m sorry, she misses you constantly, I swear.”

“Thanks,” Edge said. “Actually, that makes me feel even worse.”

“Oh _hon_ ,” Morleigh said, and Edge had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. “It doesn’t matter, really. It’s fine, she’ll be fine. She _is_ fine. So anyway, how is it?”

Edge sighed. “Beautiful. I’ve almost been tempted tonight to go and drown Bono in the bath so I have it all to myself, but I don’t think that would go down well.”

“No, probably not,” she mused. “Plus, you know, he’s a fighter. Would it really be worth the energy spent trying to keep him down?”

“Mmm. Good point. I guess I’ll just have to share.” He listened to her breathe for a moment, running his finger around the rim of the wine glass. The night was getting darker, and Edge hadn’t realized that was possible. Those clouds definitely had some teeth. “How are you getting along? Besides Hurricane Sian, I mean?”

“Pregnant.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s all happening here.” She laughed, long and tired, and Edge missed her already. “And how is Bono behaving? Is he focused?”

He paused. “Well-”

“Right,” she said, and Edge had to laugh. “Well, there’s still plenty of time. Least you both got away, huh? It’s been ages since you had a holiday, just the two of you.”

“You make it sound like we’re a married couple.”

“No, honey, you and Bono make it sound like you’re a married couple.”

Edge rolled his eyes. “Ha ha.” He’d had better comebacks, but then, she’d had better quips. The door opened behind him, and Edge sat up straight. That had been quick. “Speak of the devil.”

“He’s out, huh?”

“Yeah,” Edge said, and a hand landed on his shoulder.

“Is that Morleigh?” Bono asked.

Morleigh practically cackled. “He’s like Beetlejuice, you say his name enough times and he’s bound to appear.”

Edge couldn’t disagree. He laughed instead, and Bono leaned in closer to the phone, smelling fresh and new. “Bonjour, belle!”

“Well then,” Morleigh said. “I might just leave you with that.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“What did she say?” Bono hissed, and Edge shrugged him off.

Morleigh chuckled. “Give him a kiss for me, would you?”

“As usual, I’m overlooked,” Edge said, and he could just see her shaking her head.

“You get plenty, and you know it. Love you.”

She rung off before Edge could respond in kind. It didn’t matter really - she’d heard it a thousand times - but still, he was half tempted to phone her back. They’d gone days without speaking on tour, a week and a half once when they’d both been so busy, and he felt a little silly; a little strange. Thursday. He’d call Thursday.

Edge set the phone down on the table and patted Bono’s hand when it reappeared on his shoulder. He let out a sigh, then said, “Morleigh says hello.”

“She’s a darling.” Bono paused. “You should bring her here one day.” There was a tone to his voice that Edge knew all too well.

“Should I now?”

Bono shrugged. Edge couldn’t see him, but he knew it happened all the same. He squeezed Bono’s hand and the fingers tightened against his shoulder in response, and then Bono was shifting closer, his hand sliding out from under Edge’s grasp. His breath was warm against Edge’s neck, and Edge smiled. He shook his head when Bono brought his other arm down, his hands meeting just over Edge’s heart. “Bono.”

Bono hummed, his chin digging into Edge’s shoulder, and he was still a bit too warm from the bath. “I just think it would be nice,” he murmured. “Her, with a ring on her finger.”

Edge nodded, and he felt Bono smile. “It would be nice,” Edge said, and Bono’s smile grew. It felt a little like victory on Bono’s part, and Edge wasn’t losing that easily. “Marriage isn’t everything, Bono.”

“No,” Bono agreed. “And it’s hard work, too. But that’s what makes it fun.” He rubbed his prickly cheek against Edge’s jaw and laughed when Edge turned his head. “Fun, Edge! You know fun?”

“Sure, we’ve had a few drunken evenings together, fun and I.”

Bono snickered. “You old dog.” His voice was sly, and Edge tried to hold back the laugh, and failed completely. Bono’s cheek rubbed again, unintentionally this time Edge was almost sure, and when his hold tightened Edge reached up to grip his wrist. The breeze was picking up, the candle starting to flicker, and the hairs on his arms prickled. He was starting to smell it in the air, and if they stayed sitting out, Edge had a feeling they’d see lightning in the distance. It had come on quickly, and Edge closed his eyes and breathed it in. “Air’s getting heavy,” Bono said, and the wind whistled. “A hard rain’s a-gonna fall.”

He slipped away, and it felt as if the temperature had dropped ten degrees. Edge glanced up at Bono, caught the smile there, and the candle blew out. “Well then,” Edge said. He finished off his glass of wine and pocketed his phone. “I think Mother Universe is trying to tell us something.”

Edge ushered Bono back inside, locking the door behind him, and when he turned around Bono was looking at him strangely. “What?”

Bono shrugged. “Nothing.” He took the glass from Edge’s hand and shuffled off towards the kitchen, a small smile on his face.

Sometimes, Edge just didn’t know.


	2. Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves*
> 
> This was going to be a longer chapter, and I'm a little aghast at posting something that isn't even 4000 words. Such a short chapter than what I'm used to posting (though still long, I know, I know). There are some things in here, some emotions perhaps, that will make more sense later on in the story - trust me! I hope you enjoy

Silence.

It was the first thing Edge noticed upon waking up properly, and it was more than a little curious. Not that Bono couldn’t sit quietly - he could, and when he did he excelled at it - but often in a house with Bono, silence was deafening.

Still, it wasn’t enough for Edge to jump out of bed. It might have been a work holiday - and they _were_ going to do some work today, he would make sure of it - but it was still a holiday. And he was not going to start what was really his first full day of his holiday by rushing around.

Especially when he had a funny feeling he knew exactly what Bono was up to.

He stayed in bed a while longer, creating half-cocked scenarios in his mind and turning from his left to his right then back to his left until he had to accept that the mattress just wasn’t as comfortable as it had been when he’d awoken. It was probably for the best. His mouth tasted like hell, and his bladder was starting to speak up.

The room was warm, but not unbearable like he’d thought it might have been, and Edge had hopes for a milder day. He’d stayed up for a while longer the night before, sitting at the window and watching the rain streak the glass. The lighting had been bright, splintering the sky, the thunder a rumbling afterthought. It was different, out in the middle of nowhere. No streetlights to distract, no headlights passing by, just him and the rain.

He often had trouble sleeping through a storm, and Edge had figured it would be more of the same, but he’d felt the heaviness in his limbs only minutes after climbing in under the sheet, and he’d woken up only once when the room had been grey with early morning light, the rain a gentle patter against the roof. He was sure he'd dreamed, but the harder he tried to remember, the more he forgot until he was left with only the knowledge that he hadn't been alone.

It wasn’t quite clear skies out the window; there was a darkness in the distance that Edge wasn’t sure was coming or going. He opened the window, and it was a pleasant breeze that floated in, feeling more like spring than anything. The clouds didn’t really move, and Edge squinted at them, trying to figure out their intentions, but the more he focused, the less things became clear. He’d slept a little too long, he suspected, and he had no idea the time.  

Coffee seemed incredibly important, more so than it often did, and Edge slipped a shirt on as he padded towards the bathroom. First things first.

He called Bono’s name as he made his way downstairs, bladder empty, mouth nice and minty fresh, and there was silence. It was the response he’d expected, and he spared a quick glance towards the clock as he headed towards the kitchen. _Shit_. It was close to midday and he couldn’t quite remember if he’d seen midnight the night before or not.

No wonder he was feeling a little slow.

It was strange; it had been ages since dinner, yet he wasn’t really that hungry. He couldn’t make that coffee quick enough though, and he considered making Bono one as well, but he figured what was the point? It would be cold before Bono got to it.

Edge sat out on the terrace, the chairs still a little damp from the rain. The water seeped through his shorts as he drank, the coffee a godsend, and the birds chattered in the trees; a little bit of life that he welcomed gladly at first, becoming annoyed a few minutes later when it just didn’t stop.

He kept his gaze straight on, focused on where he knew the lake was through the trees, and when he finished his coffee he went to rinse his mug out.

In the empty sink.

Edge blinked. He’d been so focused on his coffee prep before that he’d not realized.

Bono had washed the dishes. Not only that, he’d dried and put them away as well. “Jesus,” Edge muttered. “He must have been bored.”

He headed back out, the grass squelching a little under his feet as he went, and after passing through the trees, he was not surprised in the least to find Bono waving at him from in the water. “Good afternoon, Edge,” Bono said pleasantly. “I thought you might have died.”

“Very funny.” Edge briefly glanced at Bono’s clothes, strewn carelessly against a stretch of drying dirt, before eyeing off the water itself. He still wasn’t so sure, but Bono seemed happy enough, treading water with a grin on his face. “How’s the water?”

“As it turns out, “Bono said, his grin turning shit-eating, “completely carp free.” He wheezed out a laugh as Edge stepped closer to the water with a frown on his face. Unless Bono had taken the time to scour the entire lake with his face submerged and his eyes wide open - unlikely - his use of the words _completely_ and _free_ seemed like wishful thinking.

It did look pretty carp free though. A thought crossed his mind and Edge had to smile.  “Great. What about leeches?”

Bono’s face soured. “Leeches? Do you think there are leeches?”

Edge honestly did not know. He shrugged. “Well, you never know.”

Leeches didn’t really bother him; he’d been swimming with Morleigh not long after they’d gotten together, though he couldn’t quite remember where exactly in America. That time of his life was such a blur. She’d gasped when he’d climbed from the water, pointing accusingly at his thigh, and Edge had slid his fingernail underneath and flicked the leech off without a second thought.

Still, it was fun to see Bono’s reaction. It didn’t last long though, and then Bono was smiling up at him. “If there is, then I might need your assistance later.” He raised an eyebrow, his smile turning a little wicked. “You know, of the delicate kind.”

It was too easy. “Well, if there are leeches then that’s where they’ll all want to be,” Edge said casually. “That’s usually where all your blood is.”

Bono roared out a laugh, his head falling back against the water. “Oh Edge,” he said when he could. “You’ve wounded me.”

Edge chuckled. He had to admit, he was feeling pretty proud of himself. The coffee had clearly done wonders in getting his brain working properly. “Yeah, well.” Shrugging again, Edge nudged a stick with his toe.

Bono was still smiling as he started swimming towards the land, and Edge took a step back, having been in situations where he’d been pulled unwilling into water one too many times. Though he supposed it wouldn’t have been the end of the world. He was starting to feel a bit too warm, which was strange; it felt more like springtime than summer, and spring weather Edge could usually handle easily. Still, a cool shower would be preferable to being dragged in by the ankle.

But Bono simply pulled himself from the water, with about as much grace as a seal climbing onto a rock. His skin was as white as always, and completely - and a little disappointingly, though Edge would never tell Bono that - leech free. Edge watched Bono check himself over, smiling back when Bono grinned at him.

“Guess there won’t be any sucking today, huh,” Bono said with a shrug. He swiped his clothes from the ground before starting back towards the cottage.

It took Edge a moment longer than it should have to start following. Bono had no shame. Absolutely no shame at all. “You’re not worried someone is secretly filming you then?” he asked as they went, and it came out less playful than he’d intended. A cool shower sounded ideal, really.

Bono gave him a look. “Edge,” he started. “Now, since I am turning forty very soon-”

“In ten months,” Edge cut in.

“ _Very_ soon.” Bono stopped in his tracks, and it was so abrupt that Edge nearly stumbled as he himself came to a halt. Stepping closer, Bono put his hand on Edge’s shoulder, his face so serious that Edge knew something was coming. “I’m getting old, Edge, and you, you’re still so young in comparison.” He sighed, and Edge had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. “So little life experience,” Bono murmured with a shake of his head. “We should have had this talk years ago.”

“Yes,” Edge agreed. It was all he could say. He was painfully aware of how naked Bono was, and certain that things were about to get ridiculous. More so. Sometimes, it was hard to keep a straight face.

Bono patted his shoulder, leaning in closer to whisper into Edge’s ear. “The thing about penises,” he started and Edge broke, “is that, alarmingly, half the population has one.” He was pointing as he took a step back, his lip twitching as Edge laughed. “Me and you and everyone else, so who cares?” He started towards the cottage, and Edge just managed to catch the smile on his face. “They’re all the same, Edge, and they’re all fucking ugly!”

“You’re an idiot, Bono,” Edge called.

“I know.” Bono waved back at him. “I know.”

Edge shook his head. He stood there watching Bono’s bare legs move, rubbing his mouth until the smile faded, and only when Bono disappeared into the house did he follow. He needed that shower.

Bono was halfway up the stairs by the time Edge walked inside, muttering something that Edge didn’t quite catch. He thought he’d heard the word shower though, and the bathroom door closing moments later was somewhat of a confirmation.

“Ah, shit.”

Looking around the room, Edge considered his options. It was tempting to go upstairs and make a scene, but it was too early in the day for that. And really, it just wasn’t him.

After a short deliberation, Edge went and poured himself a tall glass of water from the fridge, boiling the kettle while he was there. No doubt Bono would want something when he came back down.

It felt stuffy inside, so Edge went and sat back out on the terrace. He drank his water slowly, taking in the trees that hadn’t changed and the clouds that had. The sky was starting to clear up beautifully. It was a nice day for a walk, and Edge looked towards the private little path, considering for all of a moment. A walk would be a good way to blow off some steam, and nice and relaxing for sure, but Edge wasn’t really in the mood.

Maybe later.

Maybe he was just missing Morleigh.

The glass was cool against his cheek, and Edge relished it for a few seconds before drinking the rest of the water. He felt a little bit cooler, a little bit calmer, and maybe a little hungry. It really had been a long time since dinner, and he had no idea what he fancied. He tapped the glass against his chin, considering, and nearly lost his grip when Bono appeared beside him. “Shit!” he exclaimed.

“Whoa!” Bono threw up his hands in defense. His hair was damp, his shirt mostly unbuttoned and clashing with his shorts. They stared at each other. “Didn’t you hear me?” Bono asked.

“When?”

“Just now?”

“No,” Edge said. It came out a little more crabby than he’d intended, but Bono just smiled knowingly.

“Floating through the cosmos again, were we?”

Edge flushed. “I was just thinking about food, I suppose.” He shrugged, and Bono raised an eyebrow.

“Ooh, now there’s a thought.” Bono reached out and took the glass from his hand. “Come on then.”

Edge peered at him. “Why?” he asked suspiciously. “Are you going to cook?”

Bono grinned as he leaned in closer. “Do you trust me?” He gave Edge a wink before turning away. “Come on, I’ve been told by reputable sources that my omelettes are passable at best.”

Rubbing his palms against his shorts, Edge gave one final glance towards the sky before getting up and following. “Such high praise,” he said. “Do I have time for a quick shower?”

Bono paused. He glanced through the kitchen doorway then back to Edge. “Probably,” he said with a frown. “I have no idea where anything is.” He made a face as he turned back towards the kitchen. “Do we even have eggs?”

“We do,” Edge said as Bono wandered into the kitchen, and he didn’t get a response. He wasn’t even sure if Bono had heard him. It didn’t matter, though for a brief moment Edge found himself imagining what sort of disaster he could come back down to. Sometimes, his imagination just wasn’t creative enough to picture it. Sometimes, Bono offered up a beautiful diamond, shining bright beneath the doubt, or the confidence, or a simple smile that said it all.

And then there were all the other times.

Edge rubbed his palms together as he stared at the kitchen door frame, and his heart was starting to pick up the pace. He’d woken up fine. He’d woken up perfectly fine.

He headed upstairs, having the good sense to find a towel before closing the bathroom door behind him. He turned the water on - cold on high, but enough hot to prevent a full body shock - and stripped naked, tossing his clothes into the bathtub for safe keeping. There was anticipation running up and down his spine, settling deep in his stomach where he valiantly tried to ignore it, just a quick shower was all he needed, and yet he flicked the lock on the door before stepping underneath the water.

It wasn’t a shock, but still a bit too cold, and after adjusting the temperature to near perfect, Edge looked to the shower rack and realized. He’d not grabbed his shampoo or soap.

He considered his options, eyeing off Bono’s shampoo like it was taunting him - _ah, fuck it_ \- and he didn’t really want to track water through the hallway when it wasn’t really such a huge thing to begin with.

Trying to force his thoughts to drift, he lathered himself efficiently - _waves, what about waves? Peaceful, pure waves lapping, no_ \- before washing the soap away. His stomach was twisting, his cheeks warming, and it was ridiculous. He was a grown man. He could handle this.

Bono’s shampoo had a citrus smell about it, and Edge slowly read the ingredients as he rinsed it from his hair, trying to find the source of the scent. He breathed deep as he put the container back, watching the water circle the drain, and when he couldn’t help it any longer, he trailed his fingers down his stomach and palmed his erection.

Focusing his thoughts as best he could - _dark hair, warm hands, warm hands and the waves_  - he masturbated, and it was too quick, too easy. He rinsed his come away, not feeling the completion he’d yearned for, nor the satisfaction. He stayed under the stream for a little while longer, till he found something that resembled inner peace.

It was official. He missed Morleigh.

Bono was humming to himself when Edge entered the kitchen, a melody that sounded distantly familiar, and it wasn’t quite a diamond he’d created, but it was more than passable, and smelled even better. There was an eggshell on the ground next to the bin, and a glass of white wine on the counter. Edge eyed it off, and Bono shrugged after following his gaze. “Did you want some?” he asked.

Edge stuck with tea.

Bono insisted that they had to sit inside this time, and Edge was sure he had his reasons, but he didn’t care enough to ask. His omelette was still steaming a little when he cut into it, and the cheese followed his fork in gooey strings towards his mouth. It was good. It was simple and good. He dug in, his stomach suddenly very interested, and he was on his fourth mouthful when he realized Bono was staring at him. He swallowed slowly. “What?”

Bono just smiled and popped a piece of tomato in his mouth. He chased it with a sip of wine, having barely touched his food, and when he sat back in his chair, Edge lost interest. He drank from his mug, feeling Bono’s gaze still on him.

“You know, I got out of bed at dawn, while it was still raining. I doubt I slept for more than four hours, Edge.” He laughed. “I feel great though. I feel fuckin’ fantastic today.”

Edge speared a piece of ham. “Really?”

“I feel clear. Just - the air is different here, don’t you think?”

“Mmm.”

“It feels different. Fresh. I don’t know what it is.” He took another sip of wine, and he was frowning when he set the glass down. “I think I dreamed about you last night, Edge.”

Edge glanced up quickly. “What? Really?”

Bono shrugged. “Yeah, I dreamed I was swimming. I was in the water and there was someone with me, I’m sure it was you,” he said. “I’m almost positive.”

“Oh.” Edge paused. “Well, that doesn’t sound very exciting.”

“No,” Bono agreed. “I was far out in the ocean, and no matter how much I tried I couldn’t find my way back to shore.” He smiled faintly. “But I wasn’t scared. I knew I wasn’t alone. I knew I was safe.”

Edge shifted in his seat. “Yeah, well, it was probably the rain.” He cleared his throat. “You know, the sound of water infiltrating your subconsciousness.”

“Maybe,” Bono said. “I find the act of dreaming to be just fascinating. You’re completely out of control.” He sighed, and Edge looked up to meet his piercing gaze. “It’s incredible, how some situations seem so real and so normal until you wake up.”

“Right,” Edge said after a pause. He wasn’t sure what else to say, what else Bono _expected_ him to say, though he had a few thoughts of his own. But they were just that - thoughts. He turned back to his food, and, after a moment Bono did the same.

It was a odd sort of silence they fell into - no music to cover it this time round - and Edge finished his meal as quick as he could. “That was great, Bono,” he said as he put his fork down. Bono glanced up in surprise. “Really, it was great. Thanks.”

Bono smiled. “High praise, Edge,” he murmured.

There was too much cheese involved to leave the dishes for too long, and Edge figured it was his turn anyway. He tidied up the kitchen as the sink filled, tossing the eggshell before wiping the floor where it had been. The water was a bit too hot and a bit too soapy, and he had only himself to blame for that. He stuck his hands in anyway, determined, and when Bono appeared next to him, Edge took his plate and thanked him.

A second later, Bono was hugging him. It was a bit of an awkward position, but that had never stopped Bono before. His breath rushed out warm against Edge’s arm, and Edge pulled his hands from the sink and turned to hug Bono back. He was well aware of how wet his hands were, but he doubted Bono cared. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Bono mumbled into his shirt, and Edge didn’t quite believe him. Bono could be mercurial at the best of times, and often at the worst, but sometimes, Edge just didn’t know. “I just wanted to-” He chuckled. “I don’t know, Edge.”

Edge tightened his hold. “Okay.” He patted Bono on the back before pulling away, slipping his hands back into the water. It was obvious that Bono wanted to say more - hand through his hair, fidgeting with his shirt, it was always something  - but eventually he just sighed and headed for the fridge. There were two wet hand prints on his back. “So, what do you want to do today?” Edge asked, feeling like he had to say something. 

The fridge door banged shut, and Bono wandered back over with the bottle of wine in his hand. He looked a little confused. “I was under the impression we were here to work.”

“Well. Yes, but-”

“What do _you_ want to do?”

Edge frowned. He didn’t know exactly, but the urge just wasn’t there. Maybe later it might be. And he had a feeling that if they tried, it would just end in frustration. “Well. . ."

They ended up situated in front of the television, a glass of wine each, with paradise just on their doorstep. The sun was shining, the birds singing, and Bono was getting down on his knees while Edge was saying, “Bono, let me just go upstairs and get the videos I brought.”

“Edge, the only way to discover something is by looking for it,” Bono said.

“That’s not entirely true, Alexander Fleming wasn’t looking to discover penicillin but he did anyway.”

Bono glared over his shoulder for a moment before turning back to the television cabinet. “Penicillin,” he muttered under his breath, and Edge suppressed a grin. “My point is, Edge, that sometimes people forget things at a place like this.” He opened the cabinet and immediately started giggling. “And sometimes, as it turns out, I’m right.”

A copy of _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ was held up, as triumphantly as if it were the Holy Grail itself. Edge sighed. “Really?”

“It’s either that, or _Aladdin_.”

“Why would someone bring _Aladdin_ here?” Edge wondered.

Bono shrugged. “Why would they bring Indy?”

They came to a decision quickly, and Bono closed the curtains before settling down on the couch, remote in one hand, glass of wine in the other. There was a smile on his face, and Edge found himself watching Bono more than the screen, as secretly as he could manage. It was strange. Edge really had no idea how the day was going to pan out, let alone the two weeks. He wondered if he should ask, ask again until he got a proper answer, or if he should call Ali and see what she thought. Or if he was just worrying for nothing. It was Bono, after all. 

They got all of ten minutes into the movie before Bono’s mobile rang. He smiled sheepishly at Edge, stepping into the kitchen to answer it. It was Shriver, and it was surprising it had taken that long for someone to call, though Edge had no idea what had happened before he’d woken up. There had been times over the years where he’d been tempted to put that phone in the microwave - though partly, it was because he was curious to see what would happen after a minute or two.

He kept his eyes on the screen, trying to concentrate on a movie he’d seen almost too many times, but his attention kept floating back to the voice in the next room.

When Bono settled back down, his jaw was tight. “Everything alright?”

“Hmm?” Bono glanced over, taking a moment to click on to what Edge had asked. “Oh, it’s nothing.” He waved a hand. “It’s fine.”

“Alright,” Edge said. Bono rubbed at his mouth, smiling when Edge looked at him. It wasn’t a smile that Edge believed. He just wasn't sure. 

They were barely halfway through the movie when Bono’s phone rang again, and as Edge watched Bono step out of the room, he had a funny feeling he knew exactly how the night was going to go.


	3. Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a bit longer than I had anticipated, and for that I'm sorry, but it's here now and I hope you all enjoy!

It was there from the moment he woke; that feeling deep inside that Edge knew too well, that he sometimes yearned for, other times dreaded. Before he’d even opened his eyes, he’d heard it. Drifting in and out, it had been chaos and calm, not anything yet, but  _ something _ . 

There was something there, and he needed it out.

He tapped on the tiles as he used the toilet, a  _ rat-a-tat _ that wasn’t even close, but it was enough to keep the feeling going until he could truly lose himself. The need outweighed the urge, and Edge  _ hated  _ that.

It was early - the way his eyes burned told him that better than any clock could have - and yet Edge was barely halfway down the stairs before he realized he wasn’t alone. He thudded down the last few steps, and Bono didn’t glance up from his book. He didn’t even move. Or speak.

Which was fine. Edge didn’t need the distraction anyway. Nor did he really want it.

Nonetheless, he grumbled some sort of greeting as he passed the couch, the scratch of a page turning the only response. A nice cup of tea seemed like a good idea, but after sparing a glance towards the clock, Edge had to reconsider.

Coffee. Yes.

Coffee was what he needed at barely past six am, black and strong the one thing that could get him through a morning when he couldn’t stop.

Lathering a slice of bread with jam, Edge ate it folded before running the tap to wash any breadcrumbs lingering in the bottom of the sink. The water was a steady stream, and Edge listened to it fall; becoming a steady  _ tap, tap, tap _ when he turned the faucet down low. The water beaded, dripped, and there was something there, something he just couldn’t quite grasp; at the base of his spine, the tip of his tongue, crawling at his fingertips. 

“Morning,” Bono called as Edge passed him with a mug of coffee in one hand, banana in the other. 

He almost spilled his coffee as he made his way back upstairs, and did spill it when he went to set the mug on the dresser. Tossing the banana on the bed, Edge grabbed his guitar case, almost making a second mess when he set it down on the sheets. He moved the banana to a safer space before pulling his guitar out, and the feeling was there, bubbling under his skin. 

Often, he’d found himself wondering how other people approached writing a song. A couple of times, he’d asked, and had gotten a long, rambling response that never quite made as much sense as it should have. It could have been different, it could have been the same. It just was, he figured, and there were times when even he didn’t quite understand it, just a burning need, and those were the days when Bono’s gaze was fixed, cutting straight on through.

He’d never had to ask Bono. 

It was a couple of minutes before he was ready, guitar tuned, coffee close at hand, ready to be forgotten - Edge didn’t know why he bothered. Closing his eyes, Edge breathed deep, trying to make his way back to where he’d been, waking up with a word on his lips. And that thought. That singular, pressing thought, accompanied by something,  _ something _ .

He tried it, a couple of bum notes, readjusted and steadied his palm against the strings. “Alright.” The sunlight was starting to flood the room, and Edge watched the curtains flutter for a moment. It was a pleasant breeze, but it was too early to make assumptions. He hoped for another mild summer day.

He hoped for a few things. “Okay.” Edge licked his lips and bent his head, and when he played, it wasn’t there, wasn’t nearly enough, but it was something he could work with; something he could twist and turn until it could match the beat in his chest.

Pulling the tape recorder from his bag, Edge allowed himself only a moment before hitting the  _ record  _ button.

His coffee was stone cold when he reached for it next, confident enough that he’d reached a point where he had something to work with. Something worth molding, but almost certainly something that needed a different perspective. Sometimes, he could only do so much.

The cottage was silent, his bedroom door still wide open, and surely Bono must have heard some, if not all of the frustration and tinkering. Unless he’d abandoned inside completely for some peace and quiet, but then, Edge’s bedroom window was open, and music had a way of floating along the breeze.

Edge waited, eating the banana before chasing it down with a few sips of cold coffee, but the footsteps didn’t come. It had been Bono’s idea, his brilliant plan to run away when there was so much more to do, and yet there was just silence.

Perhaps he’d gone for a walk. Or back into the lake, to hell with the possibility of leeches. Edge had to give Bono the benefit of the doubt - he tried to, didn’t he always try? - but the album was meant to have been finished already. It was easy to say they had more time. It was so easy.

He finished his coffee, and immediately wanted,  _ needed  _ another one. Though he wondered if it was such a good idea. There was pressure behind his eye, not quite pounding, not quite a twitch, but it was enough to make him wonder. He supposed there could be a chance his lack of sleep was to blame, but Edge was sure it had manifested the night before, sometime after dinner when Bono was on phone call number five, maybe six. Irritability had turned into restlessness, and they had both followed Edge into the bedroom. 

The light was still on downstairs. Edge could see that much even before his foot touched the first step. He slowly made his way down, peering over the banister until he spotted the barest hint of Bono’s head, still in the same place he’d been however many hours ago.  _ Right _ . He briskly continued on, noting the clock as he passed - had it really been three hours? - and the two empty mugs sitting by Bono’s propped-up feet on the coffee table. 

Edge tossed the banana peel in the trash before filling the empty kettle, and he opened the fridge door and looked inside for nearly a minute before deciding he wasn’t that hungry anyway. He turned his attention back to the kettle, staring at it as if that might help it boil faster. 

_ And what did Bono do at this little french cottage while you were off working _ , the press would ask, if and when the band ever got around to actually finishing the album, as Bono generally was their main concern.

_ Well, on the Thursday, Bono started off the day with some light reading, before continuing on with some more light reading. . . _

Edge shook his head with a smile. Petulance was never a good look. Though, sometimes, Edge felt he wore it well.

_ It soon became clear to me, that morning as I watched him read, that Bono would definitely need a nap at some point to recover from his tiresome efforts. _

The kettle kicked off and Edge found himself reaching for the tea instead.

He went and sat at the table with his mug and a couple of biscuits, watching the back of Bono’s head until he was sure that Bono would have to turn around. Or at the very least say something. But Bono just kept on, head bent away from the outside world, and Edge found himself growing a bit calmer with each noisy turn of the page.

It slipped away, and Edge knew he was an idiot. He usually knew that much, though often he wasn’t exactly sure  _ why  _ he was mad. It never lingered, and he figured sometimes it was best just not to know - it made him one of the lucky ones.

Still, Edge couldn’t help but continue on with his Bono-watch as he finished his tea. It was something he had plenty of practice with, and there had been a few times where he was sure that his steady gaze alone had been enough to get Bono off of his arse. Most times, though, a few polite words had been the ticket. That, or wandering around the room with his guitar slung low -  _ It’s about muscle memory, B _ \- playing the same thing over and over until Bono snapped.

Whatever worked.

Edge went and rinsed out his mug in the sink before going back into the next room, coming to a stop next to Bono’s stretched out legs. Bono didn’t look up. He was reading _The Great Gatsby_ , and judging from the condition of the book, it wasn’t the first time. Which was a little odd. The list of books that Bono liked to re-read was impressively short.

“Do you want to maybe try and write a song today?” Edge asked after a beat.

Bono’s gaze wavered, but he still didn’t glance up. “I’m trying to become fuel,” he said absently.

Edge smiled. He reached out and snatched the book from Bono’s hands, and the look he received was as dirty as he’d expected. “Get off your arse,” he said pleasantly. 

Bono continued to glare as he swung his legs from the table and stood up. He took the book back none too gently, and for a moment Edge was sure he was going to sit right back down and continue on, and wouldn’t that have been  _ interesting _ . 

But Bono simply marked his page before closing the book and handing it back. He gave Edge a look - jaw set, eyebrow raised, nothing new there - before pushing past and flouncing towards the kitchen.

Edge just shook his head. He made his way upstairs, tossing the book onto Bono’s bed before going to pee. After washing his hands and face, he went and sat down on his bed. Patience was a virtue, they always said.

Bono joined him a few minutes later, settling down next to Edge with a put-upon sigh and a bowl of strawberries. He set his bottle of Perrier down on the bedside table, the strawberries finding a place between the two of them, and when he sighed again, Edge could see right through it. 

They stared at each other. 

It didn’t last long, and frankly, Edge was a bit disappointed with how quickly Bono broke.

“Alright, old sport,” Bono said with a grin. “Let’s hear it then.” He plucked a nice, plump looking strawberry from the bowl and winked at Edge before biting into it. A little bit of juice trickled down his chin, and when his tongue darted out to lap it up, Edge swiftly turned his attention back to his guitar.

“Can you hit record then?” he asked. Chuckling, Bono leaned over to pick up the tape recorder. “What’s so funny?” 

Bono was still smiling as he hit  _ record _ . “Just you.” He popped the rest of the strawberry in his mouth, shrugging when Edge looked at him. “It’s recording.”

“I know that.”

“Then start playing.”

Edge rubbed at his eye. It was going to be a long day. “Fine.”

From how Bono was, Edge hadn’t really expected any flashes of brilliance, though there was always a little voice in the back of his head insisting that today could be the day. Usually, though, it was drowned out by the other, louder voices. Pessimism was an easy trap to fall into, some days easier than others, and before Edge even played a chord, he had a feeling that he was going to regret coaxing Bono upstairs.

Bono surprised him though, only a few minutes passing before he was saying, “Why don’t you try it  _ this  _ way?” The demonstrating started, then the frustration, leading into the encouragement and soon enough, he was singing along; shaping the words to find the melody. It wasn’t blinding brilliance, and Bono’s voice was croaky from lack of use, but God, it was something.

They made it barely an hour before they were interrupted by Bono’s mobile ringing in the distance.

Edge shook his head. “Let it ring,” he said, and immediately felt terrible for it. They had all day, and who knew, it could have been important. It generally was.

“Let it ring, let it ring,” Bono sang loudly, before breaking into laughter. He made no move to get up though, and when the call rang out, it felt a little bit like victory to Edge. Stupid, petty victory. More than that, more  _ importantly,  _ it felt like progress.

It was a little after one when they decided to call it quits, the strawberries long gone and not nearly enough. They had ham sandwiches for lunch, sitting down on the couch to eat. Bono kept one eye on the television as he ate, but Edge really couldn’t be bothered with it. At this time of day, he was sure that there was nothing of importance on. He finished his sandwich quickly, and was contemplating whether he really needed another one or not when Bono elbowed him in the ribs, hard.

Edge jerked away, shooting out a dirty look, but Bono just smiled. “Do you want to go for a walk after?” he asked innocently, and it was hard to stay mad at that.

“Well. . .” Edge rubbed at his neck. “I guess?” He had hoped that they could get some more work done, but there was always later. Besides, a little fresh air was never a bad thing. A good way to clear a foggy mind. “Okay.” Standing up, he took Bono’s empty plate, setting it on his before gathering Bono’s mugs from the morning. “I think you bruised my ribs,” he grumbled as he headed towards the kitchen.

“Oh, poor baby,” Bono called after him. It wasn’t worth the effort, so Edge just ignored him as he set the dishes in the sink, though he couldn’t quite keep the smile from his face as he reached for the detergent. “I might go have a shower then, Edge.”

“Good, I was going to put a request in soon if you didn’t!”

There was an indignant, “Oh, you fucker,” that Edge barely heard over the running water. He definitely heard the approaching footsteps though, and when he turned, he found Bono standing in the doorway with his arms crossed.

“Yes?” 

Bono heaved a sigh. “I don’t know,” he said. “I was under the impression that you loved my musk.”

Rolling his eyes, Edge turned back to the dishes. “Christ,” he muttered. “Go have your fucking shower already.”

Bono just laughed, and he was already out of sight by the time Edge glanced over his shoulder. It was for the best, Edge figured. He’d already used up his good insult for the day, and he’d had much too little sleep to come up with anything better. Bono would  _ destroy  _ him.

He finished up the dishes quickly, and, after standing in the middle of the kitchen blankly for a moment, reached up into the cupboard for a couple of wine glasses. It seemed like a good idea; they’d actually worked and made a little bit of something, after all. Just one drink after lunch, one drink and maybe there were some more strawberries in the fridge, and then they could go for a walk. A walk and then do some more work.

It sounded like a plan, and yet, before he could go and pick out a bottle, Edge was putting the glasses back and shutting the cupboard door. He wasn’t sure why, he wasn’t, and sometimes he was sure he wasn’t in complete control of his body. There was something, though, just a niggling thought.

After pushing himself back from the counter, Edge resumed standing in the middle of the kitchen blankly, feeling a little bit stupid. He’d just not had enough sleep, that’s all there was. Usually, he could ignore that fact and push on through for days on end, by keeping busy. 

Stopping had never been a good idea.

A little fresh air would do absolute wonders, he was sure of it, and after a brief contemplation, Edge headed into the other room. He stared at the wall, stared at the table, then went and flicked off the television after watching even fifteen seconds proved to be mind-numbing, no matter how beautiful the woman on the screen had been. Bright eyes, dark hair, she looked like someone who Edge might dream about later and wake up wondering what that had all been about, before closing his eyes tight in a foolish attempt to find his way back to where they’d left it. 

It never worked. It just never worked with dreams. Sometimes, Edge figured it was just better to let them go.

The world seemed a little bit brighter after he pushed open the curtains, and then a little bit too bright after he sat down on the couch and was almost blinded. 

Blinking away little dark spots, Edge found a happy medium with the curtains before sitting back down. It didn’t really matter either way. It wasn’t like he was going to be there long, he was just waiting for Bono to get out of the shower, after all. Maybe only another five minutes, ten at most, he figured as he stretched out on the couch.

It was a bad idea. Laying down was, frankly, a terrible idea, and he knew that as soon as his head hit the cushion, but Edge just couldn’t quite bring himself to sit back up. No, he was stuck, completely stuck, and that was okay. It was fine, it was only for a little while. He had a few minutes, just a few minutes was all he needed, and he was starting to feel nice and weighed down. And warm. 

There was something, something he couldn’t place until he turned his head and  _ there.  _ A faded scent that lingered, on the couch, on the cushion, smelling more like springtime than summer. Edge buried his face further in, his knees coming up and his arm dragging loose, and he was so warm that he couldn’t have been alone. He wasn’t alone. 

It was there, bittersweet against his nose, his lips, and if he lifted his hand just so he might have felt it press against his fingertips. A smile, a laugh;  just a stupid, simple laugh before Bono had sucked the juice from his fingers. It had been slow, slow, his gaze bright and steady, and Edge’s hands had stayed dry. No. No, it might have been different. There was something . . .

His eyes. Bono’s eyes, they had been different. Dark, like Edge might have seen them before, like only Edge could make them look. His. There was something, and when Bono offered up a feral smile, Edge could only hold back for so long.

Someone was watching them.

It didn’t matter. There was nothing, just. Juice running down his chest, cold and sticky, a warm tongue lapping it up. His breath prickling cool skin, then a hot mouth at his nipple, sucking, down down -

Someone was  _ watching  _ him.

Edge opened his eyes with a gasp, and Bono smiled at him, warm and gentle. It wasn’t quite what Edge had expected, and even after squinting at Bono for a bit, Edge still wasn’t quite sure. There was a feeling, a niggling little feeling in the back of his mind, but he just didn’t know. Bono was dressed and in sneakers, though, and Edge figured he could make something from that. “Oh,” he said. “We’re going now?”

It seemed like a fair assumption, and Edge was proud of himself for getting there so quickly. But when Bono’s eyes crinkled, Edge decided that maybe he was just an idiot.

“I already went,” Bono said after a beat.

Edge frowned. “Huh?” 

Bono leaned forward to rest his chin against his hand, his fingers tapping against his top lip. It was a completely unsuccessful attempt at hiding his amusement, but somehow, it was enough to shift Edge’s brain into gear. Somewhat. “I didn’t want to wake you,” Bono explained, and Edge nodded. It made sense.

“Right, yeah,” he said, sitting up. “Thank you.”

Bono raised an eyebrow, and his hand stayed where it was. “You’re welcome.” His voice shook, just a little, and then he was laughing outright. Bastard.

“Well, I guess I was tired,” Edge muttered. He rubbed at his face, partly to rid himself of the grit, but mostly so he didn’t have to see Bono’s  _ no shit _ look thrown his way.

“No shit,” Bono said, and Edge dropped his hands with a glare. It was typical. Typical.

“Yeah, well.” Edge sighed. He had nothing. His brain was still firing blanks. “Shut up,” he said finally, and Bono looked somewhat impressed.

“Strong words, Edge,” he said. “I think that deserves a dollar in the swear jar, hmm?”

“If we did indeed have a swear jar,” Edge said as he stood up, “then you would have had to declare bankruptcy long ago.”

Bono’s pursed his lips, and he turned to watch as Edge walked away. “Nope,” he said just as Edge started up the stairs. “I don’t have a rebuttal.”

“Yeah, I thought as much.” He headed upstairs, smiling to himself as Bono’s laughter followed him, and it was a good feeling. He was feeling pretty good in himself as well, though still a little foggy upstairs, and maybe a nap had been a blessing of sorts. Not part of the plan, but a blessing. There were times when he had awoken from an unexpected siesta feeling like he’d been run over by a train, so he was feeling pretty lucky indeed.

After using the toilet, Edge ran the shower before stripping off his clothes, scrunching up his nose as he got a whiff of himself. Summer was never a great time for personal hygiene. Though it could have been worse. They could have been staying in a country where it was oppressively hot. It was a good week for France, not as hot as it might have been, and a great week in comparison to, say, Mexico. 

He stepped into the shower and just stood there for a minute, rolling his shoulders against the hot water until most of the kinks were worked out. Cracking his neck was a quicker ordeal, a simple side to side that brought instant relief, and he could practically hear Morleigh chastising him for it all the way from Dublin.

Smiling at the thought, Edge reached for the soap and lathered himself leisurely, turning the water down to a more respectable heat. Not too hot, not too cold, and, God, after four daughters he was sure he’d read enough Goldilocks to last him a lifetime. 

It wasn’t until he was rinsing himself off that he spotted Bono’s shampoo bottle, out the corner of his eye. There was a moment of oddness, where he couldn’t quite figure out why he was feeling that way, just that he was, and then it came back to him. Slowly, in snatches, not quite enough to paint a big, shiny picture, but  _ enough _ . And wasn’t that always the way it went with those sorts of dreams?

Edge stopped what he was doing, hand pressed against the glass as he warily regarded the shampoo bottle. As if he was dealing with something more sinister than a plastic container. It was ridiculous. He was being ridiculous.

It was silly to get worked up about such a thing, something he had literally no control over, and he’d been over this before - a few times really - negotiating with his brain like he was sane until they’d come to some sort of an agreement. It was perfectly normal, to dream about a friend like that, especially when they spent so much time together. There had even been a few dreams about Ali along the way, not that he’d ever tell anyone that. 

But it was perfectly normal. He’d looked into it.

The mind works in mysterious ways, Edge knew. And after accepting that, he had been able to sleep easy at nights. But it had been a while since-

It had been a while.

Edge finished up in the shower, stepping out to dry himself quickly before wrapping the towel around his waist. After brushing his teeth, he studied himself in the mirror, taking it all in before opening the door and walking down the hall to his bedroom. 

It was warm in his room, a pleasant warm that reminded him of waking up in  Èze  when they’d first bought the villa. Those lazy mornings when he could wake up late to the sound of the waves rolling in, the sea air floating in through the open window, and he would get up slow and walk out onto the balcony to watch the world just passing by. Sometimes, he’d been able to sit there alone, but most times it had only been a few minutes before Bono had arrived. It had been fine, though, Edge had never much minded the interruptions. It had still been peaceful.

Sometimes, he missed those mornings. 

Checking his watch, Edge found that it was far later than he’d expected. A few hours later, and either Bono had gone for an extra long walk, or. . .

Edge didn’t really know. Sometimes, it was best not to think of what Bono got up to when he was left to his own devices. 

It was almost time to start thinking about dinner plans, and Edge really didn’t have the faintest clue of what they might have. He hoped Bono had a few ideas, but he doubted it, and he knew he should get dressed and go down there; the quicker they ate, the quicker they could get back to work, and that was why they’d come, after all. To work. That was the plan.

Sitting down on the bed, Edge eyed off his tape recorder. He could hear Bono’s voice from downstairs, hopefully on the phone, and it was too muffled to make much sense of what he was saying, but Edge figured he had a while before Bono started wondering where he was. Really, sometimes it took hours. He picked up the tape recorder and rewound it, hitting  _ play  _ after a few seconds.

It started playing, a point not long before they’d finished up, and Edge didn’t know why he was bothering. It was still fresh in his mind, the melody and the feel of Bono’s voice, strong until it wasn’t, until he tapered off to stop and just listen to Edge’s playing.

Edge listened until the recording finished, setting the tape recorder down onto the ground next to Bono’s abandoned empty bottle. He rubbed his thighs through the towel, looking to the open window. He could hear the birds, chattering away, and it did nothing to soothe him.

It had been a while since he’d last dreamed of Bono like that, months, and yet he could remember the last time particularly well. They’d made love on Edge’s kitchen floor, too desperate to find a softer surface, and Bono’s grip had been tight against his arms, his back, painfully tight around him as he’d gasped Edge’s name, over and over, breath hot against Edge’s ear.  There had been those first few moments upon awakening where Edge had been sure that it was real, until reality had set in. Then he just wasn’t sure what to think, until he had to remind himself. 

It was just the sort of dream you had about a friend sometimes. So normal it just had to be boring.

He ended up making a salad for dinner, comprised of a bit of this and that, whatever he could find that looked like it could work, throwing in some seared chicken to make it substantial. It was still basic, though Bono seemed to enjoy it, washing it all down with big gulps of white wine. He talked about his kids, about tour ideas - which could sometimes be a dangerous thing to do before finishing an album, they’d found -  and about what Edge had missed out on the walk, which turned out to be a lot of trees and not much else, but Bono spoke of it as if that one simple trek had been a spiritual awakening. 

No doubt, he’d forget about it before the week was over.

It was dark by the time they finished up, and, with Bono insisting he do the dishes, Edge found himself at a bit of a loss. He emptied the bottle into their glasses before leaving Bono in the kitchen and walking out onto the terrace. It was a lovely night, a peaceful night, and after looking up at the clear sky for a few seconds, an idea occurred to him. He almost called out to Bono, but figured it wasn’t worth the effort. 

Bono would find him.

And he did, only a few minutes later, his laugh ringing out from inside the cottage and his footsteps following. “What are you doing down there, Edge?”

Edge just shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, and it wasn’t exactly a lie. He smiled when Bono appeared above him. “It seemed like a good idea, really.”

“A great idea,” Bono corrected as he kneeled down, setting his wine glass precariously on the edge of the terrace before shifting forward. He lay down on the grass next to Edge, loudly vocalizing the tremendous effort such a move turned out to be, and Edge had to turn his head to hide the grin. After settling, Bono let out a soft sigh, and that was it.  It was just them and the stars, and it was as peaceful as it was familiar. There was barely a cloud in the sky, and such a sight had always humbled Edge. They were so small in comparison.

“Remember when we were kids?” Bono asked suddenly, and Edge had been expecting it. Chuckling, he simply nodded, and out the corner of his eye, he saw Bono smile.

It was hard to forget; those nights early on, sneaking off late at night to the park not far from Edge’s house with a couple of bottles of beer each, conspicuously hidden in brown paper bags. They’d been so young that they’d had to get Dik to buy them the booze, and Edge couldn’t quite remember ever asking his brother, but a deal must have been struck along the way. He did remember the sort of conversations he and Bono had while stretched out on the grass by the swing-set with the moon shining down.

“All our hopes and dreams,” Bono murmured. “God, did you ever think, back then, that we would end up here?”

“Oh yeah, all the time,” Edge said, and Bono nudged him.

“You fucking liar.” 

With a grin, Edge sat up just enough to reach for his wine glass. He took a small sip, and then gave in and finished off the entire glass before settling back down, and when he turned, he found a steady gaze watching him. “It doesn’t seem like that long ago, does it?” Bono asked quietly. 

“No.” Edge paused. “Though there are some things I remember that I could swear happened earlier on than they actually did.”

“Such as?”

Edge shrugged. “I don’t know, just. . .” With a sigh, he gave up, and thankfully Bono seemed to understand. 

They fell back into silence, strange, peaceful silence that Edge knew wouldn’t last long. He enjoyed it while he could, looking through the trees to inky darkness before returning his gaze to the stars, and when Bono stifled a yawn, Edge looked to him and waited.

“Jesus, I’m tired.” Bono chuckled. “You wouldn’t think doing nothing could be so tiring.”

“Well, do you think it’s the doing nothing to blame,” Edge said, “or do you think you getting up at the crack of dawn to read might have something to do with it?”

Bono waved a hand through the air. “Whatever. Maybe.” He shrugged a shoulder. “It’s boring not being able to sleep though, so.” 

“Why-”

“You know what I was thinking about?” Bono asked, and he was rolling to his side before Edge could even think about answering him. “Being on the beach in  Èze .”

Edge looked at him. “When?”

“With Michael,” Bono said with a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Me and him, we got up to all kinds of shit together, but my favourite moments that I can recall were the quiet ones after, just the two of us lying on the beach together.” He exhaled loudly. “I would just listen to him talk.”

“About what?”

Bono shrugged. “About anything and everything, Edge. Whatever sprung to his mind. I mean, sometimes he was so pissed that it was all crap that he was sprouting, but then, usually I was just as pissed, so it sounded almost philosophical, you know?”

Edge cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I remember a few talks like that.”

“I miss those nights,” Bono said quietly, and Edge didn’t quite know what else to say. There wasn’t really much he could say; sometimes, words just weren’t enough, and when Bono shifted in closer, his hand falling lax against Edge’s stomach, Edge hoped that it was enough. 

He looked back up towards the stars, trying to make some sense of it all, and Bono sounded half asleep when he spoke again. “What do you see up there, Edge?”

“Something a lot bigger than me,” Edge said after a careful consideration, and Bono huffed out a laugh. “It’s peaceful, though, isn’t it.”

“Mmm.” 

Bono’s fingers curled against Edge’s stomach, but his eyes were closed when Edge glanced over. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Bono so relaxed. “You know,” Edge started after a few minutes, and he was saying it only because he was sure Bono wouldn’t remember. “When I was a kid I thought, if I concentrated really hard, that one night the moon might just talk back to me.”

“I know,” Bono mumbled. “You’ve told me before.”

Edge frowned. “Have I?”

“Shh. . .”

There were a couple of questions Edge had in mind, and he certainly did not remember ever telling Bono  _ that _ , but he fell silent anyway, turning his gaze back towards the night sky. Bono’s breath was warm against Edge’s neck, growing slower and slower until Edge knew that he was done for. 

He found himself thinking about that stupid dream that he’d had, but it seemed strange, too strange to even think about such a thing. It was hard not to though, once he had started, and God, he was an idiot sometimes.

Bono seemed so content though, so comfortable that Edge wasn’t sure if he had the heart to wake him. But, really, he couldn’t sleep all night out on the grass. It seemed like a simple decision to make, and yet Edge struggled. 

Finally, he patted Bono on the hand to rouse him. It did the trick, Bono jerking awake, and Edge found himself pressing his lips to Bono’s forehead. “Come on,” he said before he could really think about it. “I think it’s bedtime.”

He collected their glasses before getting up, going and setting them on the table before returning to help Bono up. It was a slow journey inside, Bono dragging his feet until they reached the stairs, and Edge let him go first. “I was perfectly happy on the ground, you know,” he grumbled as they went.

“I know.” Edge patted him on the back. “I don’t think you would have been quite as happy come morning, though.”

Bono sighed as he stepped into the hallway. “Sometimes you have to try things before you know things, Edge.”

Edge paused. “Right,” he agreed, and when Bono smiled at him, he figured it was the correct response. “Go to bed, Bono.” Bono nodded, leaning back against his bedroom door frame. It’s where he stayed, staring at Edge until Edge started to feel a bit self-conscious. “Do you need a hand?”  It seemed like a bit of a silly question, but then, he’d asked Bono stupider questions in the past, and sometimes Bono’s answer surprised him. Bono didn’t answer him, and the silence stretched on until Edge started to worry. “You alright?”

With a sigh, Bono stepped forward. “Edge,” he said, “do you remember that night in  Èze? Early on?”

Edge stiffened. There had been a lot of nights in Èze, but Edge knew. He knew exactly what Bono was talking about, and he couldn’t quite believe it. Nor did he know what to say. Bono was watching him intently, though underneath he was looking more than a little anxious, and finally Edge just had to say, “What night was that?”

Bono smiled thinly. “Nevermind,” he said. “Goodnight, Edge.”

“Night,” Edge echoed. He stood there until well after Bono’s door closed, not quite sure what else to do. Finally, he headed back downstairs, bringing in their glasses and dumping what Bono had left into the sink. He stood out on the terrace, staring back up at the stars for a little while before coming back inside, and the clock caught his eye as he was locking the doors behind him. 

He had been planning to call Morleigh. He’d been planning to do a lot of things. It was too late now, and he trudged back upstairs, casting a glance towards Bono’s closed door before entering the bathroom.

It was strange, how a few simple words could have such an impact, and, after climbing into bed, Edge tried to push it from his mind. He couldn’t. Of course he couldn’t, and when he closed his eyes, he thought that he could almost hear the waves.

“I just wanted to try that,” Bono had said that night in Èze, before getting up and walking inside. 

Five years had passed, and yet Edge still didn’t know whether or not Bono had expected him to follow.


	4. Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started writing this fic, I had every intention of each chapter consisting of a single day. Given how...wordy I can get, I should have seen this coming, but still, I was so sad to have to cut a chapter in half. it was probably going to end up a 12000 word chapter if I didn't! I hope you all enjoy

He was on a bridge. Alone. He was on a bridge with a guitar strapped to him, looking down at the river, at the faceless people with their hands up and waving, waving from the water. Back and forth, back and forth he watched their hands go, and in the distance he could hear the steady beat, closer, _closer_ -

The bed dipped, and Edge jerked up from the bed, twisting his body to get a better look through the dim light. “What issit?”

“Fucking birds,” Bono grumbled as he slipped under the sheet. He shoved at the pillow before rolling to his side, letting out a dramatic sigh as he sunk further into the mattress.

Edge squinted at his bare back, waiting for more, but when the silence continued, he simply said, “Okay.” It was all he could muster really, and after a moment of scattered thoughts, Edge decided to just give up and give in. He turned until he was right back where he’d been, right back to pure, beautiful comfort. Sleep. Yes. Sleep was wonderful.

There had been something, something. . .

A memory? A thought? No, something else, yes. Back and forth, he remembered. He was almost sure. Their hands, he could see them clearly, going back and forth, and a voice, a voice at his ear, whispering his name.

_Turn around. Turn around, Edge . . ._

He was incredibly warm, skin on skin, shifting closer still. It was something nice, something he enjoyed even on those warmer days where they were stuck together, breathing each other in until they just had to part. Her skin was soft, prickling under the shift of his hand, back and forth at an unhurried pace. They had all morning. There was nothing else, nothing urgent, and when Edge touched her hair, dragging his fingertips against an oily forehead to shift through the sweaty strands, her sigh was lost against his shoulder. The way her arm tightened against his chest, though, told Edge enough. Told him more than enough. _Oh_.

His eyes flew open, and he gasped properly awake, blinking at the fingers that were tangled in Bono’s hair. That were still tangled in Bono’s hair. And still.

Bono was thankfully fast asleep, and for the moment that was exactly how Edge preferred him to stay. Pressed up against Edge with his arm tucked tight and his lips against Edge’s shoulder, damp, hot, breathing steadily.

After years of witnessing Bono sleep anywhere and everywhere, Edge was pretty certain that he knew when Bono was completely out, the sort of out where they were all quite certain that he might very well be able to sleep through the apocalypse. It looked like one of those times, but then, Edge had never been half underneath him on any of those occasions.

And he was. Half underneath him. Sort of. An arm, a leg hooked over, and his hip tilted _just so,_ with the sheets pushed far enough down that Edge could make the perfect visual memory, the kind that was best to forget, even - _especially_ \- in the small hours.

Swallowing hard,  Edge found himself a little bit lost. Any movement could, might -

He pulled his hand away slowly, his fingers sliding back through Bono’s hair like it was nothing, silky smooth and in desperate need of a wash. He didn’t stir. He didn’t stir, and Edge really wasn’t sure what to think. He had no opinion on the matter whatsoever.

It was a strange, tense situation that Edge had found himself in, the warm and heavy weight against him growing warmer and heavier with each minute that passed, as he lay there trying to come up with the most logical solution. It was hard though. He was having trouble focusing, and Bono was becoming a furnace at his side, slowly but surely until Edge was almost certain that neither of them were going to make it out alive. Which would be fine, completely fine. To burn alive would have been preferable, considering his scattered thoughts.

No one had ever accused him of being melodramatic, but there was always a first time for everything.

Eventually, something had to give. It had been a good ten minutes, possibly more, and it was all just a little bit strange. He breathed, in and out, in and out, until he could land on something close to normal, and then he went for it.

Slipping his leg out from underneath Bono’s, Edge wasn’t quite sure what to expect. The non-reaction was a little bit of a disappointment really, but it was enough to make Edge realize that maybe, just maybe, he was being a little ridiculous. A little hysterical, and no one had really ever accused him of being that either, but then, he’d never really had a reason in the past. Not that their position was really a reason either, no matter how Bono was still pressed up against his hip, so perfectly that it was like he’d been planted there by a higher power.

They fit together well, in fact, and Edge reached for Bono’s wrist before he could even think to continue down that path. He guided Bono’s arm away, gently, _gently_ , and Bono’s breathing caught, evened out and continued on like it was just a normal Friday morning, safe in his own bed.

It was. It was just a normal Friday morning.

Edge carefully slipped out of bed, keeping his gaze fixed on Bono as he successfully maneuvered his way towards the door. Bono didn’t stir, and wasn’t that just something. Edge had figured, hoped, that to be the case. They had shared a few beds together over the years, after all, back to back or side to side or however they fell, with some sort of gap between them. Whether it be huge or barely an inch, a gap was a gap, and Bono always, always had slept like a rock. But you just could never know.

After padding towards the bathroom, Edge waited until the door was shut behind him to let the thoughts start coming. He knew. Any other morning, it would have been a different story. Something he might have mentioned offhandedly over breakfast to make Bono flush with laughter, certainly something that he could have dealt with after a minute or so, with a gentle push and the knowledge that everything would be just fine. He knew. Any other morning.

It had rolled around in his head the night before, over and over until he’d had to force himself to think of something else, before he found himself walking the hall to go and ask Bono _why_?

Why now?

Sometimes, he just didn’t know. There had been a time, long ago, when Edge was sure he’d figured Bono out, every tick, every reaction, even the most unexpected ones, the ones that he could observe with a small smile and know that maybe even Bono hadn’t seen that one coming.

Things had changed since then. He’d been naive to ever think such a thing, and with each year that passed, Bono had found a new different way to surprise him. Always, always such little things that made it worse. The big things Edge could handle surprising him, they were big for a reason, but the little things. . .

Sometimes, it was best not to overthink things. But if he had any control over the way that he thought, Edge doubted that he would be where he was today.

After using the toilet, Edge went and washed his hands, washed his face, stripped himself of his clingy shorts, and closed the toilet lid before finally sitting down. It was cool against his skin, refreshing, and Edge was getting pretty desperate for a nice, cool shower. He was pretty desperate for a couple of things.

But not yet. Not yet.

“I just wanted to try that,” Bono had said, but before that, it had been an arm around Edge’s shoulders and Bono’s breath on his cheek, so close, so warm. It had been a night for whiskey, a night to look up at the stars and ask, “Tell me what you see up there, Edge.”

It was best not to think about it, Edge had found. Best just to move on with life and never wonder why. Why that night, why then. Why at all? But it was hard. Sometimes, it was just too hard not to think, when it was there, right there. So close, and so _warm_.

He couldn’t help it. He just couldn’t help but remember, and maybe that was a good thing. Maybe it would be better to just let it run its course, so Edge could move on with the day, clear-headed and fine. Maybe he was just being an idiot. But he couldn’t stop.

It was always the waves that he remembered first, when thinking back. The waves gently rolling in, the water as black as ink under the night sky. No stars, no moon, just the clouds, and underneath, the two of them, so small in comparison.

They had been lit by the single light on the balcony. There had still been more work to be done on the villa, more floorboards, more paint and more lights, but it hadn’t mattered. He’d still laughed, turning to meet a heated gaze, one that had buried itself directly into his core, so fast. He’d not been prepared for a look like that. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to prepare for a look like that.

He’d stopped laughing.

It was enough. It was more than enough, and Edge was on his feet before he could even think about it, opening the shower door to turn on the water. Strong hands, he remembered as he stepped in under the stream. Warm. So different to what he’d been used to, yet still so gentle against his jaw, turning his face, guiding him. And then -

It was shameful, but Edge didn’t care. He couldn’t, he just couldn’t. He was too far already, hunched forward with the water beating down against his back, one hand pressed up against the glass, the other stroking his cock. He had no use for slow, not today, not with such thoughts.

A simple moan, coming deep from Bono’s chest, and it was all Edge could hear. His hair had slipped through searching fingers, gripping, his stubble rubbing harsh against Edge’s skin, but the moan had cut straight through him. Again and again, such a little thing, overtaking the waves. He could taste the whiskey, he could -

The door banged open, and it was too late.

Edge flung his hands up anyway, nearly slipping from the sudden movement, and it was a fucking stupid idea, _stupid_. He dropped his hands in a frantic attempt to cover himself, but Bono was already looking, with eyes still puffy from sleep and his hair askew, caught in the midst of a jaw-cracking yawn that ended incredibly abruptly.

His mouth snapped shut, and Edge was frozen stock still - _do something, you wanker!_ \- hands hanging uselessly at his side as Bono stared at him. Stared at _all_ of him.

It was an eternity condensed into an agonizing few seconds, and then Bono broke the silence with a quiet, “ _Oh_.” Simple, yes, but sometimes simple was enough to help Edge find his voice.

“Get out,” Edge hissed.

Bono blinked. “Can I-”

“No, Bono, out!” It came out a little louder than Edge had intended, a little harsher, a little bit like he was chastising a dog, but it worked.

Bono fled the room almost as quickly as he might have if Edge had yelled _fire_ , the door shutting behind him, and Edge wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

It was tempting to do both, and it wasn’t as if it was the first time Bono had caught him - they’d shared countless rooms in the days when their hormones had spoken louder than their brains, after all - but it was different this time. He knew it, and he was sure Bono knew it too.

After all, it was Bono who had put the idea in his mind. Asking about that night. Reminding Edge of that night. Even on that night, it had been Bono who had looked at Edge that way.

Really, Edge had every right to be mad at Bono. He was such a shit. He really was, but Edge just didn’t have it in him to be angry. It felt a little ridiculous to even consider it. They were adults. It wasn’t a big deal.

Besides, he was the idiot that had forgotten to lock the door.

He was startled from his thoughts by a tentative knock, and he should have seen it coming. With Bono, it was best just to expect such a thing. Still, Edge found himself rolling his eyes towards the heavens. _Why me, God?_

“Edge?”

“Go away, Bono,” Edge called. He didn’t know why he bothered. Not once in his life could he remember Bono obeying him after such a request. Not once.

There was a pause, and then Bono’s voice came again, muffled and a little uncertain. “Edge, I know it’s a bad time, but I really have to pee.”

Edge sighed. It was so tempting to suggest Bono go outside as nature had intended. So tempting. “Fine.”

The door opened, and Bono slinked back in, with his mouth turned in such a way that Edge supposed it might have been a grimace of discomfort, but knowing Bono, it was a fucking smile. It didn’t matter. “Thank you,” Bono said as he lifted the toilet lid.

“Mmhmm,” Edge replied as he turned away.

It was an awkward little silence that they fell into, with Edge pretending to do normal, everyday shower things while Bono peed. Distractedly lathering the soap, as Bono peed. Rinsing off his halfhearted attempt of lathering the soap, as Bono peed. Pointedly ignoring the heat low in his belly, and lower, as Bono peed. It seemed to go on forever, and surely Bono was close to breaking some sort of record, maybe not the longest urination, but perhaps the largest bladder capacity, and it was just like Bono to be exceptional without even trying.

Finally, the toilet flushed. Edge had the shampoo bottle in his hand, ready to make a start of it, but he couldn’t help but glance over.

There wasn’t much to see, just Bono washing his hands at the sink, but somehow it still felt like an intrusion. He quickly turned around when Bono glanced up and into the mirror, and felt a little foolish for it. The angle was wrong, not to mention the distance from the shower to sink. He coughed - and surely that didn’t help alleviate anything - before returning his attention to the shampoo bottle.

There was a short pause, and then Bono spoke. “Thank you.” His voice sounded a little off, a little strained, and it took Edge a moment to figure out why.

He really was a little shit.

The door opened, and Edge pointedly ignored it all until Bono, barely choking back his laughter, said, “You may continue.”

Edge turned, but he wasn’t quick enough, the door closing soundly behind Bono. Frustrated, he glared at the door handle instead, because to hell with it, he had to glare at _something_ , and there was no one in the room to judge him for such a ridiculous action. No, it was just him with a bottle of shampoo in his hand and an urge that was slowly diminishing. Still there - and a quick glance below told him that, yes, it was still there, in part - but fading.

Which was a good thing, he supposed. It wasn’t the result he’d aspired for, but either way, he was leaving the bathroom feeling a little bit clearer. He hoped.

Still, there was a moment where he considered - _it’s what he thinks you’re doing anyway_ \- and then another moment where he thought _maybe_ , but then he was turning off the water and stepping out of the shower.

The shampoo bottle was still in his hand, and Edge stared at it. As if he might just find an answer to a question that was still forthcoming. There was nothing, because of course there was nothing, and he’d had the bottle in his hand for a reason. Right.

It was strange, how one person could bring out his crazy side. And it was always just the one person. It had always been just Bono, pushing his buttons in that special Bono way, whether it be a phone call at four am, loud and full of ideas, or a warm arm and a suggestion on his lips.

“I have an idea,” was, to Bono, a great way to start a sentence, and it was also usually the moment that Larry had learned to stop listening. Edge wasn’t Larry, but even if he was, it wouldn’t have mattered. Bono could say it just as easily with a simple look. He could convey so much with just a simple look.

Edge shook his head. It was stupid, completely stupid to stew on such matters. They still had a week and a half left together. More than that, they still had the rest of their lives. It had just been one night out of thousands, just a blip in time.

He just had to push it from his mind, was all. It was something he’d managed five years prior, and it hadn’t been a problem. It hadn’t.

Edge put the shampoo bottle back before reaching for his towel. His hair was still good for another day. It was fine.

 _He_ was fine.

Bono was sitting at the table when Edge came downstairs, a good fifteen minutes later. He had a large bowl of cereal in front of him, a mug in one hand and a spoon in the other, and he was wearing a completely nonchalant expression that was just _bull_ shit. There was no comment though, not even a glance, just a huge mouthful of cornflakes that might have choked a weaker man.

Edge strolled past the table and into the kitchen, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw it.

A mug of black coffee, still steaming hot, with an empty bowl next to it. There was also three different cartons of cereal on the counter, and, naturally, a half empty bottle of milk. It was optimistic and actually rather sweet, if Edge had to put a name to it. Leave it up to Bono to charm his way using only the power of breakfast.

After making his choice, Edge shuffled back into the next room, setting down his bowl and mug before taking a seat. Bono was gazing out towards the french doors, that same look still on his face as he chewed. Edge knew, though, that Bono was waiting for him to make the first move. It was safer for him, and again, actually rather sweet. In an odd sort of way.

Still, Edge let him stew for a minute or so. Sweet or not, Bono deserved a little bit of silent treatment after the last thing he’d said. Not to mention. . .

Edge noisily cleared his throat, and Bono glanced back at him with an inquiring look. “Thanks,” he said, and when Bono’s lip quirked Edge couldn’t help but smile, just a little. “For the coffee. And, uh, the breakfast buffet.”

Bono shrugged. “Least I could do,” he said before breaking out into a full blown grin. “A simple _you’re welcome_ would have been a better response, wouldn’t it? Least I could do implies that I’m trying to atone for something, you know, which no doubt-”

“Eat your breakfast,” Edge cut in, and oddly enough, Bono listened to him. They ate in silence for a couple of minutes, but Edge could see it coming; from the shift in Bono’s face as he tried to contain it, to the _tap, tap, tap_ of his index finger against the wood of the table. Finally, Edge just had to ask. “What is it?”

“I was just thinking,” Bono started, and Edge immediately regretted asking, “that people should embrace silence more.”

Edge nodded. “Mmm, I agree,” he said. “And you’re one of those people.”

Bono narrowed his eyes, but the smile broke though. “I’m serious, Edge! Can you imagine how many hours of their lives people spend talking with their loved ones about the same things? Over and over,” he said, circling his hand through the air as if Edge needed an accompanying visual to understand, “and _over_ again, just to break the silence? The exact same conversations that they’ve forgotten, with only the slightest sense of déjà vu?” Settling back in his seat, Bono gave Edge a smug smile. “I know we’ve done it before.”

It was true, in part. In fact, Edge was having a small sense of déjà vu at the thought, a niggling feeling in the back of his mind, that perhaps they’d even had such a conversation before. It was probably best not to mention it to Bono though. “We can quite comfortably sit in silence together, Bono,” he said patiently, and they could.

They had. They did, often. It was a little insulting to think that they couldn’t.

Bono waved his hand. “I know we can, I’m not talking about us,” he said, apparently having forgotten already that he had been the one to bring _them_ up.

Edge pursed his lips, but it wasn’t worth it. “Right.” He watched Bono drum his fingers on the table, his gaze elsewhere. There was more coming, and Edge didn’t dare think to interrupt the thought process. Such a conversation was refreshing compared to the sort of conversation they could have been having, considering what had happened earlier. Just go along and smile, that was the best course of action. For sure.

Finally, Bono turned back to him, asking, “Do you think there comes a point where people just don’t have anything new to say to one another?”

Edge paused. “Maybe some people, sure.”

“That’s a rather depressing thought,” Bono said, and he did look a little depressed at the idea. Edge just shrugged. Bono was right, and verbalizing his agreement seemed like a waste of breath when Bono already knew. Edge just sipped from his coffee, well aware that Bono was still watching him. “Tell me something new, Edge, something I couldn’t possibly know already.”

It wasn’t a question that Edge had seen coming. He chuckled, surprised, but a quick glance at Bono told him that an answer was expected. “Alright.” Sitting back in his chair, Edge took another sip from his coffee as he thought, trying to come up with something that surely Bono just couldn’t know. It took a minute, and Bono watched him expectantly, raising an eyebrow when Edge smiled. “The longest word in the English language takes about three and a half hours to say.”

Bono stared. “Bullshit.”

“I’m serious, it’s completely real,” Edge insisted.

“Really?” Bono asked after a pause. He was still looking a little suspicious, but there was a smile there, ready to burst though.

“Really really.”

“Alright then,” Bono said. “What is it?”

“It’s the chemical name of Titin, actually.”

“No.” Bono shook his head with a laugh. “I want the full word.” Edge rolled his eyes. He should have known. “What, you’ve got a better way to spend the next three and a half hours?” Bono asked, a little too gleefully. “Come on, hotshot, I’ve got all day.”

“Well, gee, Bono, it’s a pretty long word.” Edge scratched his head. “I mean, I can probably remember the first two hours off the top of my head, but . . .”

“Such a disappointment,” Bono muttered with a shake of his head. There was a smile on his face still, one that he almost hid with the lift of his mug, and Edge felt a burst of warmth rush through his chest as he watched Bono drink. Affection. Just plain, good old fashioned affection, nothing strange, nothing sinister, it was just happiness and that was a relief in itself.

There was a certain comfort that he felt in talking about nothing, with Bono, with Adam or Morleigh or whoever just happened to sit down across from him with some time on their hands. It was easy, and it was nice and normal. Whatever their normal was, and that was a definition that changed on a daily basis.

What a strange morning he’d had. A strange night, a good twelve hours of fuss, for nothing. He was an adult. They could do this, and he was fine.

He was spacing out.

Blinking fast, Edge found Bono looking at him with an odd little smile on his face. “Drifting through the cosmos, are we, The Edge?”

Edge smiled back, a little self-consciously. “No, I was just-” He shrugged. What could he say, really. “I don’t know.”

“Fascinating as always,” Bono said, then finished off his coffee. He set the mug down hard against the wood, sighed, and fixed a thoughtful gaze Edge’s way. “I think there are birds in the roof.”

It was sudden and unexpected, and Edge laughed before cutting himself short. Right. He’d completely forgotten, a small detail in such a big morning. Not that Bono had been exactly clear at the time, but it made sense.

Nodding, Edge simply said, “Right.” There was more to it, there always was, and from the way Bono was looking at him, Edge could guess exactly what was coming next. He got in first. “I suppose we should go do something about that then?”

There was a smaller building off to the side of the cottage, maybe twenty five metres away, that Edge had figured he might investigate when he was really bored. It seemed too big to have been an outhouse, but much too small to be a barn, and he was sure Thomas had known what it was once used for but it hadn’t seemed all that important that first day. Now, Edge was more than a little curious.

It was just storage now, Edge discovered after unlocking the door. Storage, and incredibly hot on the inside, the kind of heat that was almost overbearing. An old bed frame pressed up against the wall, a couple of dining room chairs collecting dust, and a cracked bathtub that had been pure white once upon a time. There was so much more, and Edge just had to stop to investigate the perfectly good television that was almost hidden behind the bed frame. A distraction, which he didn't quite need when the room was so hot that it was almost sickening, but the television barely looked five years old. Surely it was still fine.

He didn’t understand people sometimes. But it didn’t matter, he was in there for a reason, and there, at the back of the room, was his reason.

It was a bit rusty, a bit old. Actually, it looked like it might very well be old enough to predate the cottage. But a ladder was a ladder, and he was sure that it had been built to last. It still looked nice and sturdy. Somewhat. It certainly was heavy, not to mention a little awkward to carry. He was just glad to get out of the heat, though outside wasn't much of a relief.

He found Bono sitting on one of the bikes that had been previously been leaning on the wall outside, and why, Edge didn’t know. Certainly, it must have seemed like a reasonable idea in Bono’s mind. But Bono stepped off of it when he saw the ladder in Edge’s grip, swinging his leg over to let the bike clatter to the ground.

“Well,” Edge said after awkwardly propping the ladder against the wall, “I found this.”

Worrying his lip, Bono eyed off the ladder for a few more seconds before shaking his head and saying, “No, I’ve changed my mind.” He pointed accusingly at the ladder. “That looks like it could buckle under the weight of a fucking feather, Edge.”

Edge very much doubted that. “Bono, I’m the one going up on the ladder, not you, remember,” he said patiently, wiping at the sweat that was starting to form.

Bono rolled his eyes. “I know that, why do you think I’m worried?” he exclaimed, then stopped, his expression turning suspicious. “Was that your subtle way of calling me fat?”

“ _What_? How on earth-” Edge cut himself off, glaring at Bono when he started to laugh. “You’re an idiot,” he muttered.

Bono didn’t disagree. He just crossed his arms in what he might have thought was a defiant gesture, but it was hard to take him seriously when he still had a stupid grin on his face. “I just don’t think it’s safe.”

“It’ll be fine,” Edge insisted and Bono still didn’t look so sure. “If you’re so worried, perhaps we should ring ‘don’t call me Tom’ to come take a look?”

The grin came back at the nickname, but Bono threw up a hand, laughing as he started back towards the cottage. “Alright,” he called over his shoulder, “I will.”

“Fantastic,” Edge said after a beat. “Great idea. I’m still going up.”

It took a moment, but then Bono stopped, glancing skyward for assistance or otherwise before turning back around. “You know if you fall down I’m going to have to be the one to administer first aid.” He pointed at himself. “Me, Edge.”

“I’m willing to take that risk,” Edge said with a smile. It was the sort of ridiculous banter that they could do with their eyes shut. Easy, normal, and he was so glad for it. So glad that there was no awkwardness.  “Look, it’s metal, B. It’s as tough as nails, alright?”

“Tough as nails.” Bono snorted. “I’m sure that’s how someone described the Titanic before it sank. Tough as nails.” With a resigned sigh, he started back towards Edge. “Fine, let’s go then.”

Together, they successfully managed to maneuver the ladder towards the cottage, but it took a bit of effort, and God, it was getting hot.

The ladder was the sort of heavy that snuck up on you halfway through, and instead of being frustrated, Edge found himself mostly impressed.  Sure, it wasn’t much to look at, but like with most things, it was about what was on the inside that counted. “This fucker,” Bono grunted as they positioned the ladder against the wall, “needs to lose some fucking weight.”

“That’s not very nice,” Edge chastised. “How would you feel if someone said that about you?”

Bono gave him a look. “Well, I don’t know, Edge, how did I feel?”

Suddenly, the ground seemed incredibly interesting. Edge pushed at a tuft of grass with his toe before turning his attention towards the ladder, and when he finally glanced back up, Bono was still watching him. “You’re going to let me fall, aren’t you?” Edge asked, and Bono chuckled. There was a bead of sweat trickling from his neck down to his bare chest, it’s pace quickening against the force of Bono’s laughter, and Edge quickly turned back towards the ladder. Already, it felt hotter than the last couple of days, and it was barely midday. A cold drink would be ideal when he came back down.

“I’d never let you fall,” Bono said. “Now come on, is it ready?”

Edge looked at him. “Yes, the ladder is clearly against the wall,” he said.

Bono stared back. “You know, we could just swap rooms,” he suggested. “You like birds, right?”

There was a thought, a suggestion, on the tip of his tongue, but Edge stopped himself just in time. Smiling pleasantly, he said, “Safety checks are complete, Captain.” He gestured towards the ladder. “She’s ready for boarding.” Bono just shook his head, and it was a more positive response than Edge had anticipated. “Can you hold the ladder?”

“Where?”

Rolling his eyes, Edge pointed and snapped, “There,” adding a more gentle, “please,” when Bono gave him a dirty look. It was probably deserved, but really, Edge thought that it seemed pretty obvious how and where a ladder should be held. But it was Bono he was talking about.

It took a moment, but then Bono was reaching out and gripping the ladder in exactly the desired position. _Happy now_ , his look said, and Morleigh had been right.

They really were like a married couple sometimes.

Which didn’t seem like the best thing to start thinking about. No, it really wasn’t a path Edge thought he should go down, not today. Instead, he just patted Bono on his bare shoulder, and he wasn’t sure why exactly, but it was enough to soften Bono’s expression. “Alright,” he said, before starting up the ladder.

It felt as sturdy as an oak, and yet Edge barely got three rungs up before Bono was saying, “Careful, Edge.”

“I am being careful, Bono,” Edge said. His patience was starting to frazzle, the heat was more than starting to catch on, and honestly, there had been times over the years where Bono had been a bit of an overbearing mother to them - but god forbid anyone try to mother him when he was sick or about to do something stupid - but even this seemed like a bit much.

Glancing back down, Edge just managed to catch the smile on Bono’s face before it disappeared. He turned back, shaking his head as he continued up the ladder. “What are you smiling at?” he asked as he neared the roof. The higher he went, the hotter it was starting to feel. Heat rises, he'd heard at least a thousand times in his life.

“Smile? What smile?”

Shaking his head again, Edge reached out a hand to grab at one of the roofing tiles. He let go as soon as it shifted in his hand. “Well, that’s not good,” he muttered.

“Do you see anything?”

Edge knew that Bono meant well, but it was still completely exasperating. “Just hang on a minute, alright?” He glanced down at Bono, and for a moment the ground spun beneath him. “Whoa, shit,” he said, gripping the ladder a little harder.

“You alright?” Bono anxiously called. “Edge?”

“I’m fine, B. Just a little head spin.”

“What? Edge, come down - hey!”

Pulling himself up another rung, and then another, Edge had to chuckle when Bono started grumbling. They weren’t quite words exactly, he didn’t think, just muted mutterings that he could barely hear. Still, Edge had a fair idea of what was going through Bono’s mind.

After wiping at the sweat forming on his forehead, Edge glanced back at the tiles, a little unsure, and then he spotted it. A hole. “Well, hello,” he whispered, and, after barely a second thought he leaned in for a closer look.

It wasn’t a big hole, really, just two tiles broken in the middle, but it was easily big enough for a bird to fit through, if they so wished. He was at the wrong angle to see in properly, and he wasn’t going to dare suggest to Bono they move the ladder over another foot so he could have another go, but he didn’t doubt Bono in the least. Maybe there was even a nest in there. It seemed like a nice, safe place to raise a family.

He listened, but there was silence. It didn’t mean anything though. If Bono had heard birds, then there were birds. That and a hole in the roof was more than enough proof.

“Edge,” Bono called. He sounded more than a little impatient, but there was concern there too, and when Edge looked back down, his vision blurred for just a moment. He blinked it away,  and found Bono with one hand on his hip, the other still firmly holding onto the ladder. Another minute and he might even have started tapping his foot.

“I’m coming down.”

He took it slow, keeping his eyes fixed on what his feet were doing, and he didn't feel completely steady, though he would never admit it. He could feel Bono’s gaze on him the entire way down. “Did you have fun?” Bono asked once his feet were firmly on the ground.

Edge shrugged, wiping at his face once more. “Well, I’m not sure fun is the word I would use.”

Sighing, Bono looked up and where Edge had been, not two minutes before. “Well?” He glanced back, and when Edge didn't answer he raised his eyebrows. “Did you find anything?”

Edge paused, and he wasn't sure why. But Bono was still looking at him, his expression slowly changing from expectant to something else. Concern. Bono was concerned, and it was just one word. He didn't know, he didn't know, maybe it was the heat, maybe-

 “No,” Edge said finally, and Bono blinked at him, surprised. Which Edge understood completely. He was more than a little surprised himself. No? _No_ ? It wasn’t what he’d meant to say - _what are you doing?_ \- it wasn’t, and maybe he was going crazy. Or maybe he was just being melodramatic - again. But he was feeling a little lost, a little strange, and like a giant fucking idiot. He opened his mouth to correct himself, but the words just didn’t come.

“Really?” Bono rubbed at the back of his head, looking up towards the roof, and Edge felt a little panicked. It was an easy fix. It _was_. It shouldn’t have been a problem in the first place. “Huh,” Bono said finally, screwing up his nose. “Alright. Thanks anyway, I guess.”

“You’re welcome,” Edge said automatically, and he couldn’t quite meet Bono’s eye. What was wrong with him? He'd been fine, he'd been just fine. “I guess we should put the ladder away then.”

Bono nodded, his gaze darting back and forth across Edge’s face. “I guess,” he echoed, and when he smiled, it made Edge feel like the biggest piece of shit on the planet. "Hey." He reached out a hand and touched Edge's cheek. "You look a little off all of a sudden, Edge. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Edge said, and Bono didn't look convinced. His hand lingered, the smile turning into a frown, and he shook his head.

"Leave the ladder," he said firmly, and Edge wasn't going to argue. He just turned his head, swallowing, and Bono patted his cheek before dropping his hand. "Come on. Inside." Inside, yes. Inside seemed like a great idea to Edge.

He needed a drink, and he wasn't entirely sure if he meant water or otherwise. 

 


	5. Friday (Again)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and welcome to Edge's crazy, mercurial mind! I apologize in advance if Edge seems a bit....well. You know. But...well, you know. As an Australian who deals with absurdly hot summers, I can vouch for those moments where you think you're fine in the heat, and then suddenly, you're flat on your back wondering when death will come, with your mind doing the thing. Add in some repressed feelings, and...well, you know.
> 
> ...This has taken me far too long, and again, I've ended up not finishing what was meant to be a single chapter. Friday has now been split into three chapters, so my original plan is completely out the window. But as it stands, this is over 4000 words this chapter, which is shortish by my standards, but had I finished the day....oh boy that would probably be a big, big chapter. So here we are. It was actually an incredibly difficult chapter to get onto paper (computer?) which is why it has taken so long...and why I threw my hands up halfway through and posted a new three chaptered story . Sorry. But I've gotten over the hard part, I think. I'm not going to make any promises as to when the next chapter is coming, though, but it's coming! Love to all my readers, I hope you enjoy.

“Sit,” Bono instructed as Edge settled down on the couch. “Stay.”

 _Good dog_ , Edge’s brain oh-so-helpfully added as Bono closed the curtains, but he didn’t dare argue. He knew this Bono. It was best just to sit quietly and wait.

Except when it wasn’t.

He watched Bono walk into the kitchen, listened to Bono rummaging around in his own special way, and attempted to figure how far he could possibly get before Bono followed, if he walked out the door now, right now.

Not far, he was almost sure, though there was some self-doubt regarding the accuracy of his calculations and really, why bother?

The couch was comfortable and outside was not, and he couldn’t quite remember where he had left the keys to the car.

Maybe they were in his room.

Or maybe they weren’t.

Maybe . . .

He thought about asking Bono if he had seen them. He thought about how much of a fucking idiot he was, how much of a fucking _liar_ he was. It was possible that he was actually going mad. It was, and his thoughts were tugging one way and then another, settling in the middle on a single, stunning revelation.

It was incredibly hot.

Distracting, a little bit sickening, from the base of his skull and pounding down, down until he could almost push aside the fact that he’d climbed that ladder for a reason. And then he had said no. He had fucking said no.

The ladder was still out there, leaning up against the wall and leading up and up to two broken tiles, but it was fine. Bono was scared of heights, except when he wasn’t. He wouldn’t go up there. He shouldn’t go up there. God, what if he went up there?

No. He just wouldn’t.

Edge was almost sure. Still, it seemed like an idea to go and put the ladder back, before Bono started _thinking_. A man with a plan, and a smart one at that. He’d figure it out. Whatever it was. Surely, he’d figure at least something out.

It took one move forward before Edge was settling his cheek back against the cool material of the couch. No, he wasn’t going anywhere, that was for sure. And it wasn’t just because the couch was so goddamn inviting - if he wanted to, _really_ wanted to, Edge was sure he’d be able to get up, perhaps - it was more.

After all, Bono had said stay, and after years of saying yes, Edge just couldn’t help himself.

It would be fine. It was fine. And wasn’t that just something, the word fine. The very idea of it, of what it meant. Fine.

There had been times, Edge had found in the past, when it came to panicking that it was possible to go the full three sixty and find yourself at the point where it had all began, where there was still a soothing sense of calm that felt a little bit fake. A little bit desperate. Denial. A beautiful, damning case of denial that never lasted long, but it was a lovely way to kill some time before the _oh shit_ moment hit.

Edge wasn’t quite sure he was there yet. He couldn’t quite focus. Was he even on his way?

He wasn’t quite sure. It was distracting, it was all so distracting, and maybe it did last long. Maybe it wasn’t so damning. But as he listened to Bono in the next room over, his footsteps stop-starting against the terracotta flooring as he searched for a solution, Edge found himself hopeful for something, just _something_.

It was a happy little place to be.

He was fine. Calm. He was too warm, pounding down from the base of his skull, and god, he just didn’t know. . .

He blinked, and Bono was sitting on the couch next to him with a frown on his face and a hand extended, his touch cool against Edge’s cheek. “Hey, hot stuff,” he said and handed Edge a large glass of water. “Drink this.”

Edge did. He was pretty thirsty, though Bono had put way too much ice in the glass, and the water froze his tongue a little but it was good. Nice and refreshing. He drank it all, and there were at least nine cubes of ice in the glass. Possibly ten.

“You could have fit a lot more water in that glass if you had left the ice out,” he said, and Bono chuckled.

“Another science lesson courtesy of Dr. Edge.” He took the glass back and immediately started to shake it, back and forth to shift the ice. _Clink clink clink_. It was not a sound Edge had ever quite enjoyed, but it made Bono’s smile widen.

“My thought was that you could let the ice melt and have a second drink without the effort of getting up and getting another one, or,” he said with the raise of an eyebrow, “you could spend some quality time with these ice cubes and suck until there’s nothing left.”

“I can-”

“I know you can,” Bono said, and Edge didn’t think he did. He didn’t think Bono quite understood him at all. He wasn’t sure if he understood himself at this point, and Bono just smiled and smiled. “Which is why I’m hoping you go for option number two.” Punctuating his sentence with a wink, Bono was nothing but swagger. The hand that appeared back against Edge’s cheek, though, was gentle. Soothing. Edge couldn’t help but lean into it, and Bono’s face softened. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” Edge said.

It was a complete and utter lie. He was getting good at those. Except he wasn’t. _Clink clink clink_ went the ice _,_ pounding behind his eye now, and it was incredible, the human brain. How sound became pain, how there were so many connections going on inside of him, and they were all working together to bring him down.

“Oh yeah, you’re completely fine.” After giving Edge a withering look, Bono dropped his hand. “Still, why don't you have a nice little lie down here on the couch?”

“Bono-”

Humor me,” Bono cut in, and he was leaning down before Edge could even think of a counter argument. Not that he was entirely sure he would be able to come up with one. He was feeling better already, _possibly_ , and that was all he had.

It would never be enough.

Bono straightened, and it took Edge far too long to realize what he had in his hand. There would be a damp spot on the floor, for sure. “Lay down, Edge.”

Edge did. He wasn’t going to argue, not today. Bono seemed somewhat determined, and he was leaning over before Edge’s head had finished sinking into the pillow.

The tea towel was beautifully cold against his neck, the water seeping into his collar in seconds, and Edge couldn’t quite help the sigh that left his lips.

Fingers brushed coolly against warm skin, and Bono’s smile had been replaced by two deep lines between eyes that darted here, there and everywhere. The pillows, the couch, the shirt that Edge was wearing, they all got a look and more, and when his gaze finally returned to Edge’s face he didn’t look away.

The towel got moved, readjusted, and then Bono’s hand strayed. Wrapping damp fingers around Edge’s arm, he quietly asked, “Do you need anything?”

“No,” Edge answered. Another lie, and with the same goddamn word. “No, I’m fine.” There was a time when he’d been almost sure that repetition could make a difference, that it could shape and twist a lie until it resembled the truth. But he wasn’t a kid anymore, he was just an idiot. “Seriously, I’m fine.”

With a nod, Bono didn’t believe him.

It was in his smile, one sided and without any teeth. It was in the twist of his hands, even in the nod itself, so careful in a way that Edge was sure Bono thought was clever.

He was always so clever, but even at his most guarded, Edge knew. The truth was in the eyes. Watching, always watching, and Christ, what a pair they made. It was curious, but try as he might, he could never quite figure out what Bono saw that gave him away. Maybe it was his eyes as well. Maybe it was nothing, and Bono just knew.  

The silence stretched on, and he had to ask, “What?” It was all he had, all he could even begin to come up with, and it was terribly sad.

Bono’s eyes crinkled. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Get some rest, alright?”

“Alright.”

It didn’t seem necessary really. Edge was feeling better already, he was almost sure, and if he could convince himself of that then surely he could take a shot at convincing Bono. But there was that look on Bono’s face, and it made Edge’s chest clench, just a little.

Rest. Of course, even if it was only for a few minutes, until Bono was satisfied enough to walk away. Maybe he would go upstairs and then Edge could turn on the television. He wouldn’t even have to get up off the couch, and lazing around still was considered _rest_.

The towel slipped a little when Edge turned his head further into the pillow, searching for the highest level of comfort, and he could feel Bono’s gaze on him even after he closed his eyes. Just watching like he was waiting for something, and it was possible that he was. Wasn’t he always?

He was always looking forward. Always the next thing with Bono, and Edge didn’t know how he did it sometimes, how he pulled away from the minutiae of life and all its problems to see past it all. He didn’t know. . .

_Clink clink clink._

That fucking sound. It was like an ice-pick to the brain, and if he heard it one more time Edge knew he would take that glass and shove it somewhere truly unpleasant on Bono’s person.

He was fine. Truly fine, and he listened to Bono’s footsteps, soft and careful as they headed towards the kitchen, followed by the unmistakable sound of a fridge door being pulled open.

It slammed shut moments later, certainly not soft and careful, and a muttered curse from Bono was enough to put a smile on Edge’s face. For a moment, before he forced it away. He was supposed to be resting, after all, and Bono was heading back his way.

There had been many nights when he was young where he’d huddled under the covers and read with a torch in his hand, listening and ready for the footsteps to come. And when they had, he’d been curled up in the dark before the doorknob had started to turn. His own little secret.

Or so he’d thought. A parent always knows.

“Edge,” Bono warned.

“I’m sleeping,” Edge mumbled.

Bono just laughed, though he sounded more than a little exasperated. The glass was set back down onto the table with a quiet _thunk_ that was much more preferable than any other sound it just might make, and Edge slitted his eyes open to find it more than half full. It felt stupidly optimistic, and when he smiled Bono just shook his head.

There was a fond look on his face though, even as he muttered, “You’re a lost cause,” and it stayed until Edge closed his eyes. Maybe longer. It was a strange sensation, knowing you were being watched, a certain burn to the cheeks that wasn’t quite natural; prickling against his skin like he was being touched.

And then he was. Just a gentle touch against his hip that lingered, and Edge counted four seconds, five seconds before Bono was pulling away, but not before his fingers squeezed tight; a form of communication that Edge understood implicitly. “Rest,” Bono said. “I’m going to take a shower.”

He slipped away quickly after that, thudding up the stairs in a way that he just couldn’t avoid, and then there was silence. For a moment, Edge embraced it. For a moment.

The thoughts came back, swift, maddening, and he turned and then turned again, searching for the perfect position to drown it all out. With a wet smack, the towel dropped against the floor, and it was strange, but Edge felt like he could relate. It was stupid. It was all just completely stupid, and he couldn’t stop himself from wondering _why_?

He’d said no, and he just didn’t know why. There wasn’t much of a reason to, it wasn’t really benefiting him in any way. He didn’t think.

If Bono asked, Edge supposed he could blame the heat. He could. He could even go up there now and tell him, right now.

_I know I said no, but what I meant was yes, Bono, yes there are birds in the roof and you’re likely going to be woken up again and again because I’m a fucking idiot . . . and I got a little hot._

It seemed like some sort of excuse, something that Bono would laugh off and then think about later, and there were a couple of different ways it could all turn out. Maybe a few more that Edge was missing, that he couldn’t quite figure out because he was an idiot . . . that got a little hot. But he was stuck, stuck on the very first way he imagined their lives could go.

It wasn’t something he should be thinking. He was supposed to be resting, after all. And when he wasn’t resting, he was supposed to be completely fine, with life going on in his own little happy place to be.

Edge just didn’t know. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was him, and that was enough of an answer.

Maybe there wasn’t an answer at all.

Sometimes, it was best just not to overthink things. But it was hard, it was so hard, and with each shift against the couch he found himself with a new thought. Cologne against the pillow. A smile directed his way. An arm around his shoulders, saying, “Tell me what you see up there, Edge,” so close, and so warm, and it had been just them and the waves, gently rolling in.

He could still hear them, if he settled his mind. In the distance, echoing in his head and so close that he could almost believe that he was somewhere else. A different time, a different place, just them and the waves. He was there. He was right there . . .

Thirsty.

There was no breeze, no air, and he was sticky and so thirsty, but it was alright, it had to be alright, because he was just so warm and so soft, and so -

It wasn’t alright. He was fucking dying.

With a start, Edge pulled himself upwards, his eyes glued shut and his hands reached out, searching, searching, and then _yes_.

Water. Glorious, beautiful water.

The ice had melted, the water barely even cold, but it was perfect. He drank it all, desperate, and he didn’t realize until he’d set the glass back down. Opening his eyes, he found Bono watching him, with a book in his hand and a smile on his face. Carefully, the page was marked and, after setting the book on the coffee table, Bono leaned forward in the arm chair. “Welcome back to the land of living,” he said quietly, then gestured to the glass. “Do you want some more?”

After flopping back down against the cushions, Edge let out a grunt that was almost a word, he supposed, though he wasn’t quite sure if it had been a yes or a no. It could have been neither, it could have been both, and sure, more water might be nice, but did he even _need_ it?

Maybe. Perhaps. Edge just didn’t know, and Bono was staring at him with that look on his face, that fucking look that would one day be the death of him. With a frown but still smiling, a little perplexed and utterly perplexing, Bono watched him until Edge said, “Fine,” just to make him go away.

It worked, and after watching Bono meander by, Edge turned his attention to other matters. His shirt, for one. Damp at his back, clinging to his front and sticking underneath his arms. A terrible sweaty mess, and he could only imagine what he looked like. Probably nice and blotchy. Possibly with the pattern of the cushion imprinted on his cheek, and it was a swirly looking thing, one part Van Gogh, two parts disaster. Edge stared at it, thinking.

“Shall I leave you and Mr. Cushion to get better acquainted, Edge?” Bono asked. The glass was full in his hand, and Edge spared a quick glance towards it before focusing on Bono’s face. Thinking. He was thinking too hard, and Jesus, he was getting nothing but fog.

“What was that painting?”

The eyebrows went up. “ _That_ painting, Edge?” With a look on his face that said it all really, Bono settled back down into the arm chair, laughing a little before he said, “Forgive me, Edge, but I’m not an art scholar. I need a little more to work with then that fine description of yours.”

“The Van Gogh one.”

“Right,” Bono said with a nod. “Could you perhaps be a little more specific?” With his dancing eyes, it was clear that he was enjoying the conversation far more than Edge, and if Edge had to choose a word, he was certain it would be regret. It wasn’t like he had to know, it was just a fucking painting, and if he let himself stop and think, truly think then he was sure it would come to him. Eventually. It was just a fucking painting.

Rubbing his head, Edge knew he had to know. “The swirly one.”

Bono paused. “Again, I’m going to need-”

It hit him fast, and Edge exclaimed, “ _The Starry Night_ , Bono!” It was a bit too loud, a bit too forceful, and when Bono’s mouth snapped shut, Edge wasn’t sure whether to laugh or turn away in shame.

He did both, rolling onto his back to let out a strange little half laugh, half groan towards the ceiling. Of course it was that painting, of course it was, what was wrong with him today?

It all came back, and Edge stopped laughing. The groan remained, took on a life of its own, and when Bono asked if he was okay, Edge said the only thing he could think to say. “I’m fine.”

It seemed just as convincing as it had the first ten times he had said it, and when Bono murmured, “The word of the day, it seems,” Edge was certain there was going to be more. There often was.

But Bono just smiled at him before standing up, though Edge could see it as plain as day in his eyes. Concern. 

Such a look always made Bono look so young, and Edge had to force himself not to turn away. 

The television was flicked on, the glass shifted closer still, and with his arm curled around himself Bono stared down at Edge for a full ten seconds before saying, “You look better though. Are you better?” 

“I’m . . .”  

“Fine,” Bono finished for him, chuckling when Edge just shrugged his shoulders. “Well, why don’t you and your fine self watch some mindless television while I go make us a snack? You must be starving.”

He wasn’t really, but Edge wasn’t going to protest. Though he just had to ask, “What time is it?”

“Oh, it’s well past lunch time,” Bono threw over his shoulder on his way towards the kitchen.

It wasn’t much of an answer, and yet Edge felt like he should have seen it coming. With a sigh, he pulled himself upright, and, after enjoying a great big gulp of water, he craned his neck to see the clock. Bono hadn’t been wrong. It was well past lunch time.

The day was disappearing on him at an alarming rate, and an unexpected nap often left him with the slightest sense of dawning panic. Time, what time?

It had just slipped away, and there was so much he could be doing. A second shower for starters, though the stickiness he’d woken up to was starting to settle. Still, he was feeling a bit crap, and he was sure such a feeling wasn’t just from sweating it out.

Right. And then there was that other thing. Something that Edge knew he had to deal with, before that gnawing feeling in his chest got any bigger. Or Bono started asking all the right questions, or even before Edge just blurted it all out at the wrong time, whatever it was that he had to say, and he wasn’t even sure.

It was just the birds. It had to be just the birds, and a stupid case of overheating, that’s all there was. Simple. Something that had to be brought up before another night passed, before Edge was awoken at the crack of dawn with Bono muttering as he slipped in under the sheets. Jesus, hadn’t once been enough? It had to be said, sooner rather than later.

When Bono returned, it took Edge all of five seconds to choose later.

There he was, with a bottle of wine tucked under one arm and a corkscrew, a plate, a knife and a couple of glasses keeping his hands busy, walking towards the couch with the look of a man who was certain he was doing something a little bit remarkable.

And there Edge was, a bastard. One that was a little bit charmed, smiling at the balancing act and smiling wider still when he saw what was on the plate.

“Cheese, meat, bread, and wine,” Bono announced, and Edge suspected he would have grandly spread his arms if it weren’t for the wine under his arm. “ _Almost_ everything a man needs in his life.”

The bottle slipped an inch, and from Bono’s complete non-reaction, Edge could see only one possible outcome if he sat there and did nothing.

He wasn’t especially in the mood for dealing with such a mess. “You’ve done very well,” Edge remarked as he took the bottle, and from the way Bono grinned, it was clear he agreed.

After setting everything down on the coffee table, he stood back and surveyed his work.

A sizable baguette, unevenly sliced. Two different types of cheese, one Camembert, one not, and Edge had never been very good with labeling his cheeses. He just liked to eat it, and while he and Bono often had different ideas about what should be considered a _sometimes_ food, cheese had always been something they could agree on. Moderation was often a point of contention though; Edge thought it was a smart way to go through life, Bono viewed it as a dirty word.

There was far too much ham on the plate, but Edge just wasn’t going to get into that with him again. Not today. He just nodded approvingly and handed over the bottle of wine when Bono held out his hand.

As always, Bono seemed to derive far too much pleasure out of uncorking a bottle of wine, a crooked grin appearing at the gentle _pop_. “Interested, Edge?” he asked, raising his eyebrow somewhat indecently. At least, that’s how Edge saw it. For a moment, and there was a thought, a memory that flashed through his mind.

He pushed it away. Mad. Just mad, and it had been at least seven seconds since Bono had asked. “Sure,” he said, and after a moment of consideration he figured it was best to add, “Just one glass though.”

It was for the best. He knew hydration was important after too much sun, but he was pretty sure that no doctor would ever recommend Chardonnay as a solution. Really, he was pretty sure any rational person would never recommend Chardonnay as a solution, and Edge considered himself to be of a rational mind - generally - but how could he say no?

It was a word he’d used already today, a word that usually had a one-a-day limit when it came to Bono, and to say no at such a time would result in _that_ look on Bono’s face.

Edge much preferred to see the smile, and when he got it he just had to smile back. _Jesus_. He couldn't. . .

With a practiced hand, Bono poured them both a glass before settling down onto the couch beside Edge. “I did consider breaking out the Beluga caviar,” he said with his tone as aristocratic as it could ever be, “but darling, what if the Queen were to arrive?”

Immediately, he was looking for a reaction. A certain validation that Edge could usually throw out there like rice at a wedding. It didn’t come. It just didn’t.

Catching in his throat, in his chest; tight, too tight, and he barely managed the thinnest of smiles, knowing it wasn’t enough. But it was there. All he could hear, and it was incredible, the human brain. How it could pick and choose the sort of things to bring forward, to forget -

_She’d be sent on her way_

-to ignore. Truly incredible, and the thoughts that came with it, the _smells_. Sea air floating along the breeze, warm and forgotten when Bono had leaned in close, whiskey on his breath and his cologne lingering, clinging in a way that demanded attention.

It hadn’t started out as whiskey. It had been expensive wine as the sky had turned pink - _Look, Edge. God’s painting another masterpiece_ \- and expensive food as the stars had come out, in a home that still had empty cupboards and drawers. With a sleeve of paper plates, Edge had come prepared. And with a gasp and a clutching hand to his chest, Bono had asked -

“Edge?”

His eyes were darting, back and forth across Edge’s face. Searching, with his hand on Edge’s knee and a question, a look, _that_ look in his eyes. Jesus. _Jesus_.

He had to say something. He just had to, before Bono. . .

“I’m fine,” he said, and he knew, even before the words left his lips, that Bono didn’t believe him.


	6. Friday (Again and Again. . .)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....I'd like to say sorry for how long this chapter has taken. How painfully long. So painfully long, it's been terrorizing me for nearly two months now. I'm sorry. Life has it's way of doing stuff that makes things hard though, so, you know. I'm sorry. And this chapter isn't as long as I had planned it, some things have been shifted to the next chapter because I just reached a logical end for this chapter, and I'm sad about that too, but....life has it's way. 
> 
> But it's here now! Look! A new chapter! I'm so happy! Welcome to Chapter 6, aka The One With Too Many Flashbacks, aka Edge's breakdown. I'm judging myself right now, after reading back. Oh well. I hope you guys enjoy???

Somehow, they had ended up watching Aladdin.

There had been a reason for it, Edge was sure, but it had been lost in transit, somewhere amongst Bono asking, “Are you sure?” and then, “Maybe wine isn’t a good idea,” before finally ending with, “Jordan was obsessed with this movie for a while,” with a roll of the eyes that told Edge he was trying too hard.

Now, he had his thumbnail between his teeth, working away at it as he pretended like he wasn’t sneaking furtive glances Edge’s way every other minute. His other arm was occupying the small space between the two of them, and the couch was a three seater. There was a whole new world on the other side of the couch waiting to be discovered, but Edge couldn’t look past Bono to see it.

He wasn’t fine.

He was so far from fine.

The plate of food had barely been touched. Edge calculated that there were only two slices of the baguette missing, and he couldn’t remember Bono taking either of them. The camembert cheese, however, was already proving to be a clear favourite. 

There was still far too much ham on the plate. 

There was still far too much noise in his head, overwhelming him to the point of calm, and if he pushed through, if he leaned in close, Edge knew that he would be able to taste the camembert on Bono’s lips.

It was the only certainty he had. 

It wasn’t enough. It was too much. It was a mindfuck, a strange predicament to find himself in, and there were things that he kept remembering. Little moments that flashed through his brain, insignificant and huge. 

A smile. A look. A lingering touch and earnest words in his ear, with them alone or in a crowded room, it didn’t matter. It never mattered to Bono.

It wasn’t about Bono though, it was about him. How much of an idiot he had been. How ignorant he was, walking through life blind with his arms tucked tightly, refusing to see,  _ refusing _ . 

Jesus.

He needed a drink.

No, he needed a few drinks. Forty percent and straight from the bottle as he hid in his room, slumped on the cool floor with his back against the wall, laughing until he cried; crying until he laughed again, and he’d done it before. 

It was about Bono. Most things were, and Edge had always accepted that happily, because most things  _ should  _ have been about Bono, whether or not people were ready to agree. And who cared what other people thought? It wasn’t about other people, it was about Bono and him. It was about them.

He wasn’t fine.

Bono was warm next to him, smelling more like springtime than summer. When he leaned forward his shirt rode up at the back, exposing skin untouched by the sun. His throat clicked when he swallowed. It was both familiar and new, skirting along the edge of being provocative, and when Bono glanced over, it was too late.

They looked at each other, the movie just white noise in the background.

Either a few seconds or an hour passed before one of them spoke, and Edge was forever losing time. “Not hungry?” Bono asked.

“Not especially,” Edge responded, and that was that.

With a faint smile that was bordering on uncertain, Bono looked back towards the television, and Edge didn’t quite know what to think. But then, had he ever?

Maybe once, and really, he could write a book on how much of an idiot he truly was.

“At least have some cheese,” Bono suggested.

Edge hesitated before saying, “I’ve thought about it,” and it wasn’t exactly a lie. He had, maybe he still was a little, and Christ, he knew exactly what that book would be titled.

_ So You’re Attracted to Your Best Friend _ by Dave ‘The Edge’ Evans. 

It would be the sort of book one might pick up in an airport terminal minutes before boarding, that required barely half your concentration. He knew the type, and generally they ended up in a used bookstore being sold for a pound, but they were good for what they were. Light. Breezy. It was something to aim for. Maybe six chapters, with the first four all entitled the same: 

Denial.

_ I’m fine  _ would have to make at least one appearance, and Edge was sure he could get away with adding a smiley face afterward. 

“We’re rock stars, Edge,” Bono had said at least once a week for the past ten years or so, and it had always sounded just a little bit ridiculous. “We could get away with  _ anything _ ,” he would sometimes add, and once, just once, he’d started singing  _ But I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die  _ like it was evidence to back up such a statement, and perhaps in Bonoland, it was. 

Random was not a word that existed in Bono’s vocabulary. 

“Everything happens for a reason, Edge,” Bono had said one night, and it hadn’t been a comfort. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

He couldn’t.

After four chapters of Denial, he’d just have to skip straight on to Bargaining.

_ Please God, if you let me wake up from this dream I promise I’ll start flossing more regularly. I’ll stop wanking to the memory of that night if you’ll just deliver me a nice case of amnesia. . . _

That was all he had really. 

But he was already writing the final chapter in his mind, though he suspected that filling the last ten pages with the words  _ I’m an idiot _ repeated like Bart Simpson writing on a chalkboard might just become a bit tedious. There was more to Acceptance, Edge was sure, but right now it was all he could focus on.

He was an idiot though. An idiot and a bastard, with an engagement ring burning a hole in the bottom of his suitcase, safe from prying eyes back home. 

Loving her was like breathing.

How could he . . .

He had though. Somehow, he had.

_ Ignoring Your Best Friend As He Licks The Camembert From His Fingers: A Guide _ by Dave ‘The Edge’ Evans.

Christ. It seemed impossible.

There Bono was though, as useless as he was brilliant in so many ways, licking at the soft cheese he’d somehow managed to smear from thumb to forefinger. Clearly, Aladdin was proving to be a bigger distraction than they’d both originally anticipated, but only for the one person who didn’t really need it. With his eyes glued to the television, Bono sucked at the tip of his finger.

There was a moment, barely a passing thought really, where Edge allowed his mind to wander at the sight, and the wet, sucking sounds that filled the air. 

Just one moment, maybe two, and it was so exquisitely alien to consider so brazenly that Edge didn’t quite know how to come back from it. 

“The Genie makes this movie,” Bono said with his shiny pink mouth, and Edge stood up so quickly that neither of them quite knew what to make of it. 

For a moment, there was silence. 

Bono stared up at him as Edge stared down, trying and failing to come up with an excuse that was in the range of sanity. Finally, he loudly blurted, “I have to go,” like it was reason enough, and he was a fucking idiot.

“Go where?” Bono asked somewhat incredulously. 

It was a fair question, Edge knew, and not one that he was quite equipped to answer. More silence followed, during which Bono’s expression started to lean back towards that of concern, and Edge had nothing. He was a blank canvas. What the hell was wrong with him? 

There had to be something. 

“Edge?”

There was at least one thing.

Suppressing a sigh, Edge muttered, “To the toilet,” and it came out sounding as lame as it felt. Bono continued to stare, sucking at his teeth in such a way that made Edge consider burying himself in the woods somewhere.

“Right,” Bono said, his eyes saying everything his smile was trying to hide. 

“Yeah, so. . .” Edge shrugged. He didn’t have much, he knew, and from the way Bono was looking up at him, it was probable that Bono knew as well. 

From the way Jafar was snivelling on the television, it was possible that he knew too. If he went and stood in Bono’s bedroom with his ears straining, maybe he’d hear the sound of some birds chirping above. Openly mocking each and every life choice that Edge had made in the last day. The last five years, in fact. 

No. More. Was it more? Jesus, it couldn’t have been always, there had to be a moment, a singular point in time when he’d looked over and wondered. . . 

With a hairbrush in his hand and his arm in his sling, Bono’s smile had been hopeful. “Edge. . .” he’d started, a little self-conscious, and he’d not needed to say another word. It had been enough, and when Edge had set the brush aside and used his fingers to work through a tangle, still Bono had stayed quiet. 

Quiet, but with a smile on his face. _ That _ smile. 

It had been enough, and maybe - 

No. 

_ You deserve to be happy, Edge. . .  _

“Edge?” A warm hand had found his wrist, and Bono’s eyes were so wide that Edge could see more white than blue. 

It was more than a little concerning, and Edge was feeling a bit dazed as he rushed out, “What’s wrong?” 

Bono’s mouth snapped shut, his eyebrows going up and then straight back down into a deep frown, and Edge realized. 

Right.

He really was an idiot.

“You weren’t responding,” Bono murmured with a slight shake of his head. His gaze didn’t leave Edge’s face, his grip tightening until it was bordering on uncomfortable. Completely uncomfortable. “I was saying your name-”

Dragging his arm from Bono’s grasp, Edge snapped, “It’s not always about you,” like he meant it, turning away before he happened to catch the look on Bono’s face. It would either be anger or otherwise, and anger Edge could deal with, he was a seasoned pro in anger. 

He’d never done well with the otherwise, though he’d seen it enough times to paint a pretty picture. With bright eyes and a furrowed brow, the child in Bono broke through in the most devastating way.

Anger he could deal with, but Edge had his doubts. He kept his gaze averted as he rounded the couch, and when he reached the stairs and realized Bono hadn’t yet called after him, Edge almost turned back. It didn’t seem right, and as he made his way up the stairs, Iago’s voice following him all the way, Edge knew he was a complete and utter bastard.

He slammed the bathroom door behind him and wasn’t sure why exactly. It wasn’t him. Mostly. Was it?

Some men bought Ferrari's. Other men left their wife for a younger model. Edge had never quite been one to conform, and maybe that was it. Maybe he was going through some sort of crisis. He wasn’t quite middle aged, but it made sense. It had to.

_ You deserve to be happy, Edge. . .  _

He was fighting a losing battle.

The mirror wasn’t quite something Edge wanted to look at, but, after using the toilet, he knew it was almost impossible to avoid, with the sink positioned where it was. Unless he just neglected to wash his hands, and even the thought of doing such a thing brought forth the voice of his mother, shaking her head as she said, “You were raised better than that.”

His cheeks were flushed, the wrinkles lining his face more pronounced, and there was a look about him that he just didn’t recognize. Which was strange, so strange, that he couldn’t help but take a second glance. And then another, before outright staring at himself. It was completely unnerving, but he had to. 

_ Admit it.  _

He had to.

“Admit it,” he said to his reflection, and it hadn’t sounded quite so loud and daunting in his head.

It was too hard, and he left the bathroom feeling like an idiot. A part of him expected - hoped? - to find Bono waiting for him in the hallway, but he was nowhere to be seen. Standing at the top of the stairs, Edge couldn’t even hear the television playing, and it left him a bit curious. A bit concerned. 

It was tempting to go down there and investigate, perhaps go outside and head out to the lake, or take a walk through the trees, or even just sit out on the terrace with a glass of wine.

He had to be doing one of those things. Breathing in the soothing scent of summer as he looked out at the world, contemplating, formulating, looking forward to whatever might be. 

Bono was forever looking forward, though sometimes recently, Edge had caught him wallowing in the past.

It made two of them really, and even with his foot raised and searching for the first step, Edge knew that he couldn’t go down there. Not yet. There would be questions, ones that he couldn’t answer, and sometimes Bono just couldn’t accept such silence. 

Other times, he understood it better than Edge could ever hope to, and maybe that was the problem.

Walking into his room, he immediately went and stretched out on his bed, because he clearly hadn’t done enough laying about for one day. 

He’d be a seasoned professional in no time. 

With his gaze fixed to the curtains, Edge allowed himself a moment of empty thoughts, a few seconds where he thought of nothing, and everything was fine before he gave up the ruse and just gave in.

It had been late, the sort of late that would get them in serious trouble when their parents found out, and they always had. Even if they’d been fast asleep when Edge had slipped out and still snoring when he’d tiptoed back in, somehow his parents had always known. And Bono’s dad had been the same, in a way that was even worse. Still, it had never stopped them, and looking back, it had been a lot to risk for just a quiet night under the stars.

He’d never said no, though, not even on a school night, and Bono’s face had lit up every single time, as if he’d never quite expected the  _ yes _ .

There had been one night in the park where, in the middle of talking about their hopes and dreams for the future, Bono had stopped and looked at Edge like they were seeing each other for the first time. His cheek had been caught under the moonlight, and he’d smiled and leaned in closer until Edge had been able to smell the beer on his breath. 

Edge hadn’t shifted back.

“What do you want, Edge?”  Bono’s voice had been gentle, and he’d been so close that for a moment Edge had wondered what he was really asking. His eyes had been dark, his smile unfamiliar, and when Edge had stayed quiet, Bono had rolled onto his back and loudly exhaled. 

The silence had stretched on, and Edge had begun to doubt his entire existence when Bono had muttered, “It’s a hard question to answer,” his tone that of someone who knew from experience.

Edge had only been sixteen.

“Bono,” he had said without quite knowing where he was heading, and he’d let it hang in the air like it was enough.

Turning his head to face Edge, Bono had said, “You deserve to be happy, Edge,” with such conviction that Edge had believed it. He’d nodded, and Bono’s face had lit up like the moon.

After, when he had been warm and safe under his covers, at a time when he should have been fast asleep, Edge had let Bono’s words run through his mind, over and over until he’d been certain he could go mad from it.

Maybe he had. Maybe it had just taken a while, and Edge just didn’t know.

Except that he did. And really, he had for. . .

Five years? More? 

Jesus, he was a disaster.  _ It  _ was a disaster, and how he could just walk back down there and pretend like everything was completely fine, continue on for the next week or so, for the rest of their  _ lives _ , Edge just didn’t know. 

Bono would find out. Maybe not right away, but in the end, he always figured it out, whatever it was. He was too bright, too perceptive for his own good sometimes, and stupidly, Edge thought to imagine Bono’s reaction. 

It could go a few different ways, and he focused on the one single way that could get them both in trouble.

It was dangerous. It felt a little scandalous, entertaining such ideas and being all too aware of what he was thinking. Encouraging it somewhat, even, instead of trying to bury it, and he had no idea how he’d come so far so quickly, but there he was. With the door open wide and the sun starting to dim through the curtains, completely exposed and aware of himself, and it wasn’t so insane. It wasn’t.

“I just wanted to try that,” Bono had said that night in Èze, and it hadn’t been Edge that had leaned in first.

It wasn’t so insane to consider. 

Just consider.

There was an engagement ring in the bottom of his suitcase, and their second child on the way. There was her smile and her hair, the warmth of her breath against his neck as she held him close and sighed, content and lovely. 

There was a heavy weight sitting deep within his chest, and Edge just didn’t know how to get it to shift. His breath caught once, twice, and he could choke. He could suffocate, he certainly couldn’t breathe, and the panic rushed through, tingling his fingers and toes before stopping as quickly as it had started.

He breathed. And again, and it was fine, as heavy as his chest still felt. He was fine. Really. A complete overreaction - as long as he just stopped thinking about it. 

He just had to put it out of his mind. For a few minutes at first, then onto an hour, then a couple of hours, and then maybe he could make it an entire day. There was a chance. There was always a chance.

The bed dipped behind him, and Edge nearly jumped out of his skin. 

“Sorry,” Bono said, and he really did sound sorry. “I didn’t mean to wake you.

“I wasn’t asleep,” Edge muttered. _S_ _hit_. 

He couldn’t put it out of his mind. Not with Bono right behind him, so close that Edge could hear each and every breath and picture his face as he took them. If he turned his head just so he wouldn’t have to imagine, so Edge kept his gaze fixed to the wall. “I just didn’t hear you come in.”

“Sorry.” 

“It’s alright.”

It wasn’t really, and from the silence that followed, Edge figured that they both knew that. He could ask Bono to leave, but it would be something he regretted. He could ask Bono what he was thinking. The answer had rarely surprised him over the years, but recently Edge just didn’t know. There were a few things he just didn’t know, and he was talking before he could even stop to think about it. “Do you remember when you first called me about this trip?” 

It wasn’t a question he’d even thought to ask today, but Edge knew what was to follow as soon as the words left his mouth. Jesus, why had he asked it? He couldn’t unsay it, though he could say, “Nevermind.”

“Nevermind?” Bono chuckled. “Why nevermind?”

“It doesn’t matter, I’m just tired.” 

It was a flimsy excuse, Edge knew, in fact not really an excuse that made much sense, but he hoped that it would be enough to get Bono to leave. 

Leave him in his wallowing, and he’d never had much practice in it, but Edge had always been a fast learner. Though he did remember once after Aislinn had left when he’d lost time staring at the wall, at the television, eating noodles or nothing with his face dry or buried into a pillowcase that still smelled of her perfume.

“Is that all?” Bono asked. “Just tired, nothing else?”

It was a trap. If he said one thing it could lead to another, and then another, and Edge decided just to stay silent. It wasn’t a great plan, but it was something, and when Bono’s palm found his cheek, warm and soothing, Edge wasn’t really that surprised. The way he instinctively leaned into Bono’s touch, though, was slightly unexpected. 

“Are you feeling okay, really?” There was something in Bono’s voice that made Edge want to just lay it out, lay it all out in one crazy spiel. Thankfully, before he could do such a thing, Bono added, “Don’t lie to me, Edge,” like he was talking to one of his girls. 

It was enough to give Edge pause.

Bono’s palm was still against his cheek though, a constant reminder, and his voice caught as he said, “I just need to rest, I think.” 

It sounded plausible, surely enough to get Bono to just leave him alone for a while, maybe for a few days even until Edge could get his bearings, if that was even possible. He just needed some space is all, though when Bono’s hand slipped away, Edge had to stop himself from protesting - loudly. 

He was a fucking disaster.

There was a pause, and then Bono sighed before saying, “Alright.” He didn’t leave though, didn’t even shift on the bed. There was more coming. There was always more, and it was like sheer torture, as Edge listened to each breath. In and out. “That was the night I met Shatner, right?”

Edge blinked.

It took him a moment. Right. He’d asked a question. Of course Bono couldn’t let it go. Because why would he, when everything else was heading south? 

Silence wouldn’t get Edge anywhere. An answer might, though Edge could just see how it could all turn out. More questions. More things that Edge just couldn’t answer. And there would be Bono, just staring at him with that fucking look on his face. Worried or frustrated or confused or however it turned out, Edge just didn’t know.

“Edge?”

“Right,” Edge muttered, because he had to say something. He just couldn’t help himself. “The night you met Shatner.”

He listened to Bono breathing, in and out, accompanied by the faintest scratch of skin against prickly skin. Without even looking, Edge could see Bono rubbing his hand against his mouth, thinking back and trying to see through the haze. He’d been drinking that night, Edge had known from the moment he’d picked up the phone. Not on his arse, but still well on his way. 

Enough to loosen the tongue, to say the things that weren’t easily considered.

“Vaguely,” Bono said finally. There was something in his voice though, and his hesitation, that made Edge wonder. “Why?”

On that night, Edge had been sure Bono was talking about the album, in his own roundabout way. “It doesn’t matter.” 

It didn’t really. But still, it was already there in the back of his mind, burrowing itself deep for the long haul. Just another questionable thought to add to the collection, and when Bono said, “No, tell me,” Edge wasn’t sure if it was relief or trepidation that he felt at the thought of answering. 

There was no way around it now. 

Except that there was. But Edge was getting good at ignoring the obvious. “You said we needed to find the connection we were missing.”

“Yes,” Bono said, so quickly that it seemed a little suspect. “I did say that.”

_ Vaguely, my arse. _

“Well. . .” With a sigh, Edge rolled onto his back, and it seemed like a great idea until Bono smiled down at him. Shrugging a little uselessly, he asked, “What did you mean by that?”

“What do you think I meant?”

They were getting nowhere fast. 

Irritation came quickly, and from the way Bono’s expression changed, Edge figured it showed. “I never thought that we were missing a connection,” he retorted. 

It came out harsher than he’d meant it, but he didn’t care. That night after hanging up the phone, he’d found himself staring at the ceiling as sleep eluded him, thinking back over the past couple of years. Wondering. Trying to pinpoint a single moment that might have made Bono start to consider such a thing. “Not in the studio, or - or in. . .”

He let it hang, not entirely sure how to end such a sentence out loud. In his head, there were a number of different ways running through, all matched with their own response from Bono. Their own outcome. 

He couldn’t say any of them though, and when Bono just smiled, Edge couldn’t help but wonder if he even needed to.

Quietly, Bono said, “Maybe I was wrong,” his smile turning a little lopsided as he shrugged. “But you still agreed to come.”

He had Edge there. The bastard. “I’ve never been good at saying no,” Edge muttered and he wasn’t sure why. In his head, it had been a great explanation. Really though, it just made him sound completely pitiful. 

He was a mess, though somehow he’d managed to stop himself before he’d said  _ to you _ . Somehow. Maybe God was feeling sorry for him. 

From the way Bono’s face softened though, Edge figured the implication had been there. 

He turned back towards the window, tempted to bury his face into the pillow. Maybe smother himself for a while. 

At the very least hide away from the outside world. From Bono. Who was touching him again. On the shoulder this time, but still. It was enough. It was too fucking much, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to shrug it away. 

“It’s nobody’s fault,” Bono had said another night years before, and Edge hadn’t quite believed him. Still, when Bono’s hand had found his shoulder, Edge had reached up and grabbed it. “Sometimes you can both do all the right things and still find it’s not enough, you know?” 

Through the window, the sky had been grey, and Edge had doubted himself. Maybe he’d not done enough, maybe the things he had done hadn’t been right. Maybe he’d let her slip away. “What can I do, Edge?” Bono had asked, and Edge had just gripped his hand tighter.

He couldn’t quite remember if he had answered. He remembered being thankful though, so incredibly thankful that Bono had been there with him that he had wanted to cry. 

Perhaps he had. 

He’d tried to forget those days. It was strange, though, how some memories could find their way back to the front after so many years, dragging unwanted emotions along for the ride.

With a gentle squeeze of his shoulder, Bono simply said, “Get some rest,” before slipping away. His hand on Edge’s shoulder, his weight on the bed, his goddamn hypnotic breathing, all gone. Replaced by the gentle  _ pat, pat, pat  _ of his footsteps down the hall, and then Edge was truly alone like he’d wanted. 

It wasn’t really what he wanted, he found.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted. Except that he did. Maybe. Possibly.

Did he?

“Shut the fuck up,” he chided himself, and it didn’t really make him feel any saner. He’d been almost normal a few days ago, he was sure.

He was  _ almost  _ sure.

He was wrong.

“I just wanted to try that,” Bono had said that night in  Èze, but before that, there had been nights where sleep had eluded Edge, where he’d found himself staring at the ceiling as he tried to think of anything but. Until he could almost convince himself that it was just one of those things, and it was alright to think about once in a while. 

It was alright to awake in the middle of a dream about his best friend and immediately try and get right back to where they’d left off, with his eyes squeezed tight and his hand slipping lower until he could get there. Or not. And on those days in the studio where he’d close his eyes and listen, just  _ listen  _ to Bono sing, he could tell himself afterwards that it was simply the best way to get a sense of the melody. 

As a child, he’d looked up at the night sky and wondered if it was possible that the moon could talk back to him. He’d wondered until he’d almost been convinced, telling himself again and again that maybe he just needed to try harder. 

If he could convince himself, if he could just believe, then it had to be true.

“I wish I’d known you as a child,” Morleigh had said when Edge had pointed up at the moon one night and told her. 

Her eyes had been warm and she’d laughed, and when Edge had said, “Why? I was in denial. And I clearly had no concept of reality,” she’d slapped his arm and laughed even harder. He’d kissed her until she’d forgotten what had been so funny, and later, as she had slept in his bed, Edge had looked out at the moon and believed. In her. In them.

He’d convinced himself.

“I just wanted to try that,” Bono had said, but the night before that he’d been asleep in the cooling water of the bathtub, confused at first when Edge had awoken him and then flushed when Edge hadn’t quite been able to stop laughing. “I guess I was tired,” he’d muttered as he’d sat on the closed toilet seat with a towel wrapped around him, looking so much like the boy that Edge had once known. His hair had been damp against Edge’s fingers, and he’d leaned into the touch with a heavy sigh that said more than his bloodshot eyes ever could. 

“You shouldn’t be tired, you’re on holidays,” Edge had said, and he’d known that it didn’t always work like that. Bono had just shrugged, and he had looked so pitiful that Edge had wanted to hug him.

He had.

He’d never been able to help himself.

He couldn’t remember why Bono had been so tired, if there had been any reason at all, but Edge remembered the way Bono had practically melted into him, warm and pliant. “What is it?” Edge had asked when the silence had continued, and Bono had said something,  _ something _ . . .

He couldn’t remember that either. But Edge did remember the way Bono had smiled at him when he’d said, “Get some sleep,” just before shutting the door behind him. On the balcony, he’d smoked a cigarette as he’d looked out at the ocean, at the sliver of moonlight that blemished the inky water. 

It was strange, how quickly emotions could find their way back to the front.

He’d smoked a second cigarette and looked up at the stars, stretched out on a lounge chair as he had contemplated the enormity of the universe. And him, so small in the midst of it all. And Bono . . .

And Bono.

Again and again, Edge had convinced himself.

“Tell me what you see up there,” Bono had said the next night, and God, if only he knew.  
  



	7. (And Again and Again. . .)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome to Edge's continued breakdown!! It's going oh so smoothly.
> 
> So I know it's been two months and I'm terribly, terribly sorry, but as always, life. Now again, I've had to cut two chapters in half, because as I'm posting this, what was originally meant to be chapter 7 was sitting at a pretty 14000 words and only....85% finished. I didn't want to cut it, but here we are. Hopefully the next chapter isn't too far away because it's SO CLOSE TO BEING FINISHED.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy, love to all!

She was dancing. Twirling through the air with her dark eyes and that knowing smile on her face. Edge reached out a hand. Close, so close.

She slipped away. 

Still smiling from across the room, with her hips swaying and her arms above her head, her hair in perfect waves. She would be the death of him. He told her as much, and she laughed and said, “Follow me.”

Edge did. Through a deep blue door that he knew too well, that lead to a room that it shouldn’t. The walls were yellow, and he was alone. When he called out her name, silence answered, and he felt like he was drifting. Lost, out to sea without a way back, and if he cried, would they know?

He heard footsteps in the distance. Behind him, coming closer. 

_ Turn around, Edge . . . _

He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. 

He did. 

The door was open, and he walked through it. Outside, the sun was shining brightly, and he wandered through the trees, his footsteps crunching through the silence. In the water he could see fish darting just under the surface, and he wanted to join them. 

“Edge,” came the voice behind him, and there was a hand on his arm. “I have something to show you.”

He followed Bono through the trees, smiling when Bono turned back to look at him. The beaten path they walked reminded him of home. It felt. . .

It felt right.

“You’re going to love it,” Bono said, and Edge was sure he would. They continued on until he heard it. Faintly, cutting through the quiet. Music. It felt so familiar, but he wasn’t sure. He stopped, and Bono held out a hand. “Do you trust me?” he asked, and Edge did. 

How could he not?

“Follow me,” Bono said, and Edge already was. “Closer, Edge.” They continued on, and they were getting closer. Edge was almost sure. The music was getting louder, and if he just cut through the trees, maybe . . .

“Where are you? Edge?”

He opened his eyes to darkness. It didn’t seem right. They were outside. They had just been-

He was alone. Inside, in a dark room, and his mouth tasted wrong. Like he’d swallowed a nickel. He couldn’t quite remember doing so. He couldn’t quite remember what he’d just been thinking, and slowly he started to realize. 

Right. He couldn’t remember falling asleep, but then, who ever did? 

It seemed like too much effort to move, so Edge stayed on the bed for while longer, staring through the darkness until he could make something of it. The door, slightly ajar, and now that he thought about it, Edge was sure Bono had left it wide open. 

He was almost sure. 

There was a chance, and maybe it was wishful thinking, or maybe Bono had come back.

Wishful thinking . . .

He would have to deal with it, at some point. With himself, his goddamn mind, but it felt groggy like he’d had too much to drink, and when he rolled over his body was heavy in a way that was wonderful and terrible, and he wanted so badly to go back to sleep, but he could hear the music. 

It wasn’t loud enough for Edge to know what was playing, but it was enough for him to know it was there, and if he closed his eyes, it was all he could think of.

Downstairs, Bono was passing the time, alone.

It was strange, and then it wasn’t, how badly Edge wanted to go down there. He felt calm about it, and maybe he was still half asleep, or maybe the darkness had a way of bringing things to light. Edge just didn’t know. 

But he wanted to go down there.

Sitting up slowly, he braced himself before turning on the light, and still his eyes weren’t prepared. He saw stars and he remembered, one night in the middle of Popmart, being woken up at a time when the sun surely was only just around the corner. 

Somehow, Bono had gotten into his room, and that had happened from time to time.  _ Still  _ happened. 

He’d drunkenly called Edge’s name again and again until Edge hadn’t been able to stand it any longer, and when the lamp had been turned on, Edge had groaned and covered his eyes. 

It had taken a moment for the light to become bearable, and he’d rubbed away the worst of the black spots and muttered, “Oh, I’m seeing stars.”

“No, just one,” Bono had said, gesturing to himself before lying down on the bed. His eyes had been red behind the yellow frames, and he’d laughed so hard he’d started to cry. 

He’d smelled like too many cigarettes and there had been tequila on his breath, but when he had shifted closer, Edge hadn’t quite been able to find it in himself to push Bono away. “Missed you tonight.” 

“I was tired.”

The glasses had been removed and dropped carelessly to the floor, and his eyes had been both startling and wrong. “Yeah, but I missed you.”

His lips had been wet against Edge’s cheek and when he had smiled, it had been crooked with too little teeth.

_ Sometimes it gets to me, you know? I just - I don’t know, Edge, I’m fuckin’ tired. . . _

It had been late, and Edge had been too tired and cranky, but still he’d managed a tight smile back, and Bono had rolled away from him, letting out a long sigh before falling still. He’d drifted away slowly, stirring only when Edge had covered him with a blanket. 

In the morning, he’d been quiet. They had sat on the couch with the television on low, drinking coffee that left a bitter aftertaste in their mouths, and for a while Bono had dozed with his head back and his eyes shifting beneath their lids, busy even in his dreams. The lines on his face had been more pronounced, and when he had been awake he’d been caught in a constant squint, but even in his suffering he’d still managed a smile. 

Secretly, Edge had been glad for it all. 

Glad for the company when Morleigh was so far away, and glad for the silence. It had become increasingly rare over the years, those contemplative mornings and nights where they could just sit together in the quiet. With Bono focused or not, looking at the television or a book or often at Edge, his voice low as though he was ashamed to make a noise. 

It reminded Edge of early on, when Bono had been bursting with ideas for their future; always looking ahead, always thinking big. Sometimes too big, but still. He’d been at his best stretched out and looking up at the stars. Talking quietly or not at all, but always thinking, and Edge had always been disappointed when the nights had ended.

God, it was obvious, looking back. And sure, maybe a part of him had always known and he had been in denial about it, but still. 

Still.

He just didn’t know what to think. Or do. He felt calm, too damn calm for how he’d been feeling earlier, for how he knew he should still be feeling, but he just didn’t know. It was kind of nice though. Not having that weight on his chest. Being able to think clearly. Nice.

He was fine. Really. 

Calm. 

Though staring at the wall for too long was starting to make him feel a little. . . 

Anxious wasn’t quite the word. Edge wasn’t entirely sure if he knew what word he was looking for, but he just knew he had to get up. He had to, now, otherwise there was a chance he’d never quite be able to make it downstairs. 

He got out of bed.

In the hallway he could hear the music better, floating up the stairs, and when he recognized the album his breath caught in his chest. Only for a moment and he wasn’t even sure why. 

No, he knew.

A pure drop in an ocean of noise, Bono had said in print and in private about Jeff Buckley. It was the perfect way to sum up such a talent, Edge had always thought. He’d never told Bono that, and he wasn’t sure why. 

With his eyes closed and his hand gripping the railing, Edge listened for half a song there at the top of the stairs, absorbing the lyrics and the melody like he was hearing it all for the first time again. And it was strange, how his sense of calm could manifest into something else entirely, towards a feeling of power, of purpose, tinged with melancholy. 

A strange place to be.

He slipped away. Into the bathroom, before he could wander down unprepared. Not that he really knew what he was preparing for, and Jesus, they still had more than a week together. 

No, he was  _ calm _ . He was, he knew he was as he brushed away the metallic taste in his mouth, avoiding his reflection until he couldn’t any longer. He spat, rinsed his mouth out and set his toothbrush down, then looked up.

In the mirror, Edge saw a different person. He wasn’t sure how, or what changed, and it had only been a blip in time since he’d last looked, but still. Different. 

It couldn’t have been so easy. It shouldn’t. He just didn’t understand how, or why, and there had to be something around the corner, something lurking downstairs to make him take a step back and look at the bigger picture. 

For a moment, he felt sick to his stomach, and it was so strong, so sudden that he was sure that he would vomit. And what a waste of toothpaste that would be, was all he could think as he bent over and breathed deeply. Once. Twice. 

A third time, and it was gone. Flitted away back into nothingness, and it took him a moment, but he was able to glance back up and look himself dead in the eye. Like he was daring himself, and Edge supposed, in a way, he was. 

“Admit it,” he said when he could, and it felt bigger this time, bolder, and once the words had slipped from his mouth he couldn’t quite believe how freeing it felt. “Admit it.” 

And he must have been crazy, because he almost could.

After splashing his face and using the toilet, Edge hovered in the bathroom for a little while longer, trying to find something of great importance to do, like scrubbing out the bathtub or maybe going and reorganizing Bono’s suitcase, because he knew, in that department, Bono needed all the help he could get. 

Maybe he was a little crazy. Maybe he wasn’t entirely fine. Maybe he should just stop it all, and go and make a phone call. Listen to her voice until he could make sense of it all. 

If he could. Edge just didn’t know, and there was that feeling in his chest again, as he left the bathroom and all but threw himself down the stairs. 

Straight into the lion's den, his chest clutching and the music drifting over him, and he wasn’t calm, he was fucking  _ crazy _ . To think he was ready for such a thing, ready to admit it, to contemplate what it all meant, to even consider - 

On the floor, with his knees pulled up towards his chest and his chin tucked against his shoulder, Bono looked small, in a way that he usually never did. 

Though he was. Small. But Edge had never really thought of him like that. He’d always been bigger than life, a voice heard above the noise, a smile that cut through even the tallest of crowds.

But there he was, curled up in a way that couldn’t have been good for his knees or his back, with his head turned towards the CD player and his eyes closed as he let the music wash over him. 

Looking small.

He hadn’t seen Edge, the music loud enough that Bono probably hadn’t heard him come down either, and Edge knew that he could just slip away.  Back upstairs to where it was safe, where there was no talking, no questions, not yet, just him and his own thoughts for as long as Bono could possibly keep away. Which likely wasn’t that long, but still, it wasn’t now. He could buy some time to think some more, to work himself back into a frenzy, a state that he was sure he should still be in, because it was fucking insane. 

His best friend, his  _ best friend. _

He could slip away easily. 

But he didn’t. He couldn’t, and it felt ridiculous to think of doing such a thing. It was just Bono. No matter what, it was his best friend. No matter what. 

He was almost sure, and as he walked closer, any feeling of dread he had just flitted away. He could do this. He could sit down and listen. Talk like they always did, like nothing had changed; push it all away or just under the surface and be normal. He could do it.

He was almost sure.

No.

Yes. Yes, he could. 

He could, and when Bono glanced up at him, Edge knew it was too late to think otherwise. “Hey,” he said. Bono gave him a crooked smile before reaching over to turn the music down. “Comfy down there in the floor?”

“It’s the best place to be,” Bono replied, and Edge sincerely doubted that. “Care to join me?”

He couldn’t say no. Still, he hesitated briefly, glancing toward the CD player as if it held all of the answers he needed.  _ Broken down and hungry for your love _ Jeff Buckley crooned back at him, and Edge decidedly didn’t want to put much thought into such an answer. Though maybe it was something. Maybe.

His knees cracked as he made his way down, Bono watching him all the way, with a near-empty glass of wine in his hand now, and Edge wasn’t entirely sure where he’d pulled it from, but a drink sounded like the best idea in the entire fucking world. He nearly got up to go get one, and of course he could bring out the entire bottle, get them both nice and happy, and it seemed like an even better idea in his wicked little mind, but Bono was looking at him. 

Sidelong, like a puppy, with his forehead creased and that look in his eyes, just glad for the company. 

It would be too hard to get up and leave him after such a look, even if it was only for a minute, and besides, if he really had to come up with a good excuse, it was too much effort getting up and down from the ground all the time. Why Bono couldn’t just sit on the couch like a normal person, Edge would never know.

The floor was refreshingly cool against his bare legs, a welcome luxury on a warm summer's day. His sigh brought a small smile to Bono’s face, and the eyebrow went up. “Feeling better?” 

Edge paused. If only Bono knew how loaded that question actually was, though when he thought about it, both in body and mind, the answer came quite quickly. “Yes,” he said, and the relief he felt at saying one easy word was staggering. “I do actually.”

The smile grew slightly, but Bono simply said, “Good,” before turning his head back towards the CD player. He finished his wine and set the glass down, and the silence that they fell into was strange. Concealed by music, but still strange, and Edge wasn’t quite sure what he could say. 

Maybe it was the music making him think such a thing, but there was an air about Bono that was a little troubled, and he wasn’t sure why, or what he could do.  _ If _ there was anything he could do, and sometimes it was best just to do nothing. 

Sometimes.

“You alright?” 

Turning back to face him, Bono regarded Edge long enough for the moment to border on uncomfortable. Then, with a sigh and a wry grin, he leaned in to rest his forehead against Edge’s shoulder. 

It was only for a few seconds, and then he was turning his head until his cheek was pressing right where his forehead had just been. He sighed again, and Edge felt a twisting urge, deep inside. To extend an arm and pull him in closer, to coddle and soothe him until he was laughing again. To do something, anything, because to have such an urge, Edge knew, wasn’t a new thing. It wasn’t a part of this, whatever this was, it had been there from day one. He knew. He  _ knew _ . 

It was fine.

“You scared me a little today,” Bono said quietly, and Edge should have known.

“I know,” he said, though he’d only just realized. “I’m sorry.” 

Bono shook his head. “Don’t be sorry. It was my fault,” he said, and Edge really, truly had no idea how Bono could think it was his fault, but he didn’t dare ask. Bono seemed to be building up to something, and he didn’t want to interrupt whatever it was. 

Besides, he’d never listen. Past experiences had taught Edge that, and sometimes that stubbornness worked in his favour. 

Most times. And to some, Edge was sure it could be seen as annoying or frustrating, and sure there had been times when he’d wanted to wrap his hands around Bono’s neck and not in a fun way, but mostly he just found it endearing. Still. After living in each other's pockets for more than half their lives, Edge still found Bono endearing, and if that didn’t sum it all up for him, then he wasn’t sure what else could. 

He was done. And somehow, he could still breathe easily.

“No, honey, you and Bono make it sound like you’re a married couple,” Morleigh had said, and it hadn’t been the first time. He’d never had much of a response, because he’d never had much of an argument for her. 

“I’d like to make a toast,” Ali had said maybe two years before, and Edge couldn’t quite remember what had prompted her to speak up, but she’d been unsteady on her feet, he remembered that much.  That, and how she’d glared at Bono when he’d emptied the bottle into her glass with that glint in his eye, but leaned in to kiss him anyway. 

It had only been the four of them, and Morleigh had grasped his hand then and whispered in his ear. What she had said, Edge had no idea. He’d been waiting for Ali to make her toast. 

“No, let me finish,” Ali had insisted and it was possible that someone had tried to stop her, Edge supposed, but he just couldn’t remember. It had been late, and the table had been littered with empty bottles. “I’d like to make a toast to my darling husband and  _ his  _ darling husband.” With a shrug and a giggle, she’d looked Morleigh’s way. “I’m sorry, Morleigh, but, well, you know. . .”

Settling back in his chair, Bono had flicked the ash from his cigarette and smirked at Edge before taking a drag. Laughing and shouting, the girls had been hard to follow, so Edge had just filled up his glass and let it all float over him.

Bono was still leaning against Edge’s shoulder, his legs straight out in front of him now and his palm rubbing back and forth against his thigh. A nervous habit or just an unconscious comfort, Edge had never quite been able to tell, but he was wrapping an arm around Bono’s shoulders before he could even think to consider such a thing. 

And wasn’t that just something. 

He was slipping. He had to be, and Jesus, how had they gotten there? How could he even stop and consider such a thing and not panic completely?

He wasn’t sure. He just didn’t know. But when Bono let out a chuckle, this tired little sound that made Edge wonder, he knew that he was in trouble. 

“You know, it’s funny,” Bono said, in a way that Edge knew whatever was about to follow wasn’t funny in the least. “There was a while there where I was worried about you every single day. If you were okay, if you were happy.” His hand flexed against his thigh, and then he looked at Edge, uncertain. “If you were taking care of yourself properly.”

The words tore through Edge, and for a moment, he was stunned. He’d known, of course he’d known that Bono had worried. He’d not been blind, nor was he stupid, but there was knowing, and then there was  _ knowing _ . “B-”

“I’ve not had to do that for years, Edge,” Bono said quietly. “You can’t imagine how much of a relief it is to be free of such a burden.”

Edge paused. There was so much he could say, but with the way Bono was still looking at him, he knew he had to choose his words carefully. “I can imagine,” he said, and it came out a bit choked. Jesus. 

Bono just shook his head, but there was a smile on his face when he turned back, slight as it was. And sometimes Edge was sure Bono could see right through him, right on through to his heart, though he’d never say such a thing out loud. It felt strange, like something one might read in a trashy romance novel. But God, such a look left him feeling exposed and. . . 

Safe. It left him feeling safe. Though he’d never quite known where to look. 

Mostly, he’d just stared right on back.

He was getting that look now, so close that he could feel Bono’s warm breath against his chin, smelling sweet like rosé. Edge knew, if he just tightened his hold, they could be closer still. And if he just leaned in -

Not that he would. No, he couldn’t. 

He just didn’t know, but still, he thought about it. For a second too long, and they were still too close, the air smelling sweet like rosé, and maybe he was seeing things, but he was almost sure -

“You can talk to me, Edge,” Bono said, and that was that.

Edge slipped away, and he’d not realized just how warm Bono’s body had been against his arm until he was free of it. Of course, he knew he had to respond, but there wasn’t really much he could say, besides, “I know,” because  _ really _ . 

A thread had come loose from the hem of his shirt a while ago, and Morleigh had been on his case to just throw the damn thing out. It predated their relationship, he had so many other shirts he could wear, it wasn’t just one thread, really, it was a few. She had so many opinions about his shirt, and maybe she was right, but it was one of his favourites, and sometimes he was glad for the distraction of that loose thread. Something to play with, to focus on and ignore the world around him, if only for a few moments. 

Bono had looked down. At his lips. Bono’s gaze had flickered down towards his lips. Edge was almost sure. 

Or maybe he was seeing things, maybe he was just reaching, and, really, what did he know?  It was all a bit too confusing, and Christ, Bono’s choice of music was just. Not. Helping.

He got in a good fifteen seconds of fiddling before a hand stilled his fingers, and, like a trained dog, his attention was immediately drawn back to what was most important. 

Bono had that look on his face, not quite a frown but not quite a smile either, caught in the middle like he was looking at a charity case, and it pulled Edge right back to a time he’d much rather forget. 

“You’d tell me if there was something wrong, right?” he asked, his fingers curling around Edge’s briefly before slipping away. And that wasn’t a question he’d heard back then, because, looking back, it had been obvious something was wrong, no matter how much he’d tried to hide it. 

Transparency, thy name is Edge. 

But that wasn’t really true, though, because he’d managed to carry on with life around almost everyone else without getting the  _ looks _ . He’d managed to do just fine without her, and almost everyone had been convinced of it. Or, at the very least, let him believe.

Right, yeah, that was probably it. Oh, that was definitely it. Christ, he was such an idiot.

“Edge?”

“Alright, yeah,” he said, and it came out a bit harsh, a bit wrong, but Jesus, something was wrong, alright, and each time he caught the look on Bono’s face it brought him right on back to Earth. He could smell the rosé still, and somehow, it hadn’t yet turned sour.

He was so fucked.

“I’m fine, Bono,” he added with a smile that hopefully showed just how fine he was.  

Bono looked unconvinced, and really, Edge couldn’t blame him in the least. “Don’t bottle things up, Edge. It can end terribly.”

And there wasn’t anything Edge could really think to say to that, not to Bono, and not at such a time when he was sure his brain was about to kick into overdrive and take his heart out with it, so Edge simply said, “Okay.”

It left him feeling stupid. But apparently it was enough for Bono, who nodded like they’d had a breakthrough, and Edge had no idea what was going on. In the moment, in his life, and maybe he was having a midlife crisis of some sort, maybe he was losing his mind, and at least it would be an excuse for not telling Bono about the birds. Which he should. 

He had to. But Bono was looking at him,  _ looking  _ at him, and fuck, any sort of crisis would be an excuse for what he wanted, so badly, to do next. “Bono-”

“Do you remember,” Bono started as if Edge hadn’t even spoken, and maybe he hadn’t, “when we were kids, how many hours we spent sitting on my bedroom floor listening to records? Just  _ listening _ to the music, Edge, like we are now?”

Slowly, Edge brought himself right on back down to normal, and Bono was looking so earnest that he just had to give him the answer he wanted. “Yeah,” he said, and it wasn’t much of an answer. “Though we’ve not entirely been focused on the music tonight,” he added, and he should have stopped at  _ yeah _ . 

A slightly bemused smile was all he got from Bono, and wasn’t that just something. Edge waited, because surely there had to be more, but Bono just drifted away, eyes fixed on a point off into the distance. Focused on something that only he could see; an idea, a moment, a memory, it could be anything with Bono, and Edge didn’t dare interrupt. 

He just listened to the music.

It was strange, really, how it felt like only a handful of years since those early days, and yet at the same time, in that odd little way, it also felt like an eternity had passed.

Those days, or those nights, and often it had been days that had bled into nights, with the sun setting through the window and the clock tick ticking as Bono would hold up a record and ask, “Have you heard this yet, Edge?” And often he had, of course he had, but still he’d stayed; with his head resting against the frame of Bono’s bed, or the wall, or free of it all as he stood by the window and looked up at the moon, listening and wondering.  

Or sometimes, if it was getting too late and he could barely find a reason to hang around much longer, but couldn’t quite find it in himself to walk out the door, he’d found himself on Bono’s bed.  With his cheek pressed against the pillow and his arm dangling over the side, fingers brushing against Bono’s shoulder, or not, and neither of them had cared; they’d just listened to the music. 

He couldn’t quite remember, and Bono had changed his cologne so many times since, what sort of scent he’d picked up from the pillow, but he remembered turning his head further in when he was sure Bono wasn’t paying attention. Breathing deeply and feeling stupid for it, and strange, and a little ashamed, yet content. 

Conflicted. 

But most of all, it had been a comfort to him, in the same way it had been whenever he smelled the baby shampoo Aislinn had used on the girls, or the first time he’d breathed in Morleigh’s perfume on the scarf she’d left at his place, or yes, all those times Bono had pulled him in for a hug after those nights early on. His shampoo and his cologne, changing, constantly changing and yet somehow it was always distinctly  _ him _ , the smell clinging and lingering in Edge’s hair when it was long enough to tie back. Even after, it had still managed to linger.

God, he’d been such a fucking idiot. All this time. All this goddamn time. 

He remembered those other nights, alone in his room as he listened to the same records, over and over until the music would get under his skin, until the lyrics became a part of him and he could breathe along to the beat and whisper the words into the darkness.  On those nights, Edge had been able to feel a certain type of fulfillment that he’d never quite been able to match, and he’d been fine. Better than fine, he’d almost managed to find himself on those nights, alone in his room, and he wasn’t sure how many teenage boys could claim such a thing.

But he remembered those beats of silence between each record, how lonely the stillness had made him feel.

It was strange, Edge found, what one could remember when they were looking for it. What a person could forget, or push aside, or think about so much that it had no choice.

It just had to slip away.

“It’s strange,” Bono said quietly. 

Edge nearly jumped out of his skin. 

The music had finished, and when Bono gave him a bemused little smile, he couldn’t help but feel like an even bigger idiot than he already was. Which was pretty impressive, all things considered, though Edge couldn’t quite bring himself to mentally give himself a backhanded compliment for such a feat; he was too busy trying to get his heart to kickstart back to normalcy. 

“What?” he asked when Bono didn’t continue, and Edge wasn’t sure, but there was a chance that he’d shouted the word. Just a small chance, or maybe the room was just too quiet all of a sudden, sucking away at his skills of perception.

The smile had left Bono’s face, and his expression left Edge wondering if he’d even spoken at all. 

He was almost tempted to ask again, but then Bono started to speak.

“Sometimes, I find myself wondering how the world could be if someone hadn’t died, you know? Would it be a huge difference, or would it be almost exactly the same?” With a slight shrug, Bono kept his gaze forward. “I’m not even talking about someone huge, like Lennon, though they’re all giants-”

“Yeah.”

“-I mean someone like Jeff Buckley. He’d barely just begun in life, Edge.You can’t help but think.” Bono’s lip quirked. “A pure drop in an ocean of noise,” he murmured, like a soundbite come to life, with that look on his face that made Edge scramble for something,  _ anything  _ to say, to bring Bono back above water. 

But before he could come up with something, Bono was speaking again. “How do you think Michael would have gotten on, if he were still here?” he asked. “I mean, do you think he would have made music for as long as he could?”

It wasn’t something Edge felt like he could answer, and when he looked at Bono, he could hear all of the questions he wasn’t asking, all the things that Bono was so desperate to know; things he would go the rest of his life not knowing. Despite his reservations, Edge knew he had to say something, so he said, “I think he would have,” in a way that he hoped was completely convincing. And it might have been right, it might have been wrong, he would never know. But it was enough, he hoped, to give Bono a little peace of mind.

Still, Bono was left with that look on his face, like a lost child uncertain of the world, even as he nodded at Edge’s words. They fell into a strange silence, one that Edge was desperate to fill. With anything.

He found himself asking, “Did I ever tell you I saw one of Jeff Buckley's sets, not long before  _ Grace  _ was released?” though he already knew the answer was  _ yes _ . Two times, at least, he could remember them discussing it, and Bono had shoved him and called him a bastard only one of those times, jealous and then dour.

This time, it brought a slight smile to Bono’s face. “So many times I’ve lost count, Edge,” he said, completely full of bullshit as always. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were rubbing it in my face.”

“I’m not, I just-” Edge shrugged. He wasn’t sure exactly, but Bono was still smiling at him, though it was starting to turn. “He was still pretty raw, but still I pissed myself, just a little.”

“Is that so, The Edge?”

“That is indeed so, Bono.”

“Like the time you heard  _ Ok Computer _ for the first time?”

“More like the time  _ you  _ heard  _ Ok Computer _ for the first time.”

Bono let out a huff. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Grinning, Edge clutched his chest with one outrageously dramatic hand. “We’re riding around in a fucking lemon, Edge, a  _ lemon _ , and they’re releasing the album we should have made!”

With a wave of the hand, Bono said, “That doesn’t sound like me,” raising an eyebrow Edge’s way as inspiration came. “That sounds like a line from a Mr Larry Mullen Jr’s one man play, actually.”

Edge laughed. “God, could you imagine what that would be like?”

“The entire audience would probably feel as if they were being interrogated.”

It was a mental image Edge hadn’t quite been ready for, and he found himself laughing all the harder, thinking about it until he couldn’t quite get the imaginary look on Larry’s face out of his mind. Though it wasn’t that imaginary, really, when such a look had become far too familiar over the years.

“How lucky we’ve been, watching him hone his one man stage persona for all these years,” Bono mused, his barely concealed grin turning into something else when he looked back at Edge. A little half smile, one Edge knew too well, and it stayed there on Bono’s face, not wavering until well after Edge’s laughter had turned into a tired little chuckle, until they were left just looking at each other in the quiet of the room.

Strange, Bono had said. So strange.

Edge couldn’t quite look away, and he knew that face, so well he could draw it in his sleep, could describe the way Bono’s cheek quirked when he thought he was being clever, but he couldn’t quite remember the last time he had seen Bono look so . . .

He wasn’t quite sure of the right word. Worn didn’t seem apt, but it was something close, something a bit warmer, and when Bono glanced away Edge was sure it had only been a few seconds, but the turn of his stomach almost convinced him otherwise. Almost. 

Worn wasn’t quite right at all, and if he thought about it, really thought about it. . . 

No, still he couldn’t quite get there.

He wasn’t sure where his mind was recently, but sometimes it felt like he no longer knew how to follow a train of thought to completion. 

Again, he was lying to himself; he knew exactly where his mind had been recently, and he forever felt like he was losing time over such thoughts.

He just didn’t know . . .

Bono was quiet. That much he knew. And even such a simple thought was enough to clear his mind and put him right back on track. Somewhat. Christ, something warmer was right, and it was in the way Bono was pressed up against him, skin on skin, his head listing to the right just enough to make Edge stop and consider all the possibilities they could create in the next ten seconds, if only he had a bit of courage.

“It’s getting late,” Bono spoke up, his voice snapping Edge right on back. Though, when Bono glanced sidelong and raised his fucking eyebrow, it was almost enough to drag Edge right back down. He had to do something. Fix it. Figure it out and make it go away. Or . . . 

He had to do something. Soon. He just wasn’t sure what. For now, he simply said, “It is.”

To think, people thought he was smart.

Bono just sighed, rubbing at his eye, and then his mouth as he gave Edge a contemplative look. 

“Are you hungry?” he asked like the thought had just occurred to him, but Edge had been waiting for it. Late meant food in Bonoland, and asking if someone was hungry was Bonocode for  _ I must be fed immediately, lest I start fading away into nothingness _ .

“I suppose we should eat,” Edge conceded, smiling at the way Bono’s face brightened. He was so easy.

“Great!” Bono slapped his palms against his thighs, rubbing at the fabric as he grinned at Edge. “I’ll take care of the wine,” he said, a little too gleefully, almost forceful even, and then he was up and heading towards the kitchen before Edge could even put two and two together.

“You-” Edge stopped, shaking his head as he muttered under his breath, “Of course you will.”

To Bono’s credit, he did help with the food preparation, though maybe  _ help  _ was too strong of a word. Grabbing a couple of things from the pantry and informing Edge, “We’re running low on some shit,” as he stood with the refrigerator door open wasn’t quite Edge’s definition of help, but it was something, he supposed. 

“I know we only had pasta the other night,” he said as he stirred the sauce, and there was a  _ but  _ there that he didn’t quite feel the need to vocalize. It was not a night for effort, it seemed.

Bono shook his head. “Edge, Edge,” he said, setting his glass down on the counter before stepping closer. And closer, his cheek coming to rest on Edge’s shoulder. They both watched the wooden spoon glide through the sauce, Bono’s chest rising and falling against his back, and he was so warm that Edge nearly lost his grip. “I’d be a happy man if you fed me this every day for the rest of my life. A well kept man.” He huffed out a quiet laugh, his breath ghosting against Edge’s chin. “A very fat man.”

It took Edge two tries to clear his throat, and by that time Bono had slunk away, leaving his back - and the rest of Edge - to quickly cool. “Every day for the rest of your life? That seems like a lot of work for me.” After tapping the excess sauce from the spoon and setting it on the counter, he turned to face Bono. He was playing with fire, he knew, his cheeks already starting to warm even before he said it, but he had to. He just had to, and besides, he would have before.  . . before. He never could help himself. “What do I get in return?”

Bono blinked quickly, and then he was grinning, somewhat bashful even as he winked at Edge. “I could think of a few things,” he said, and it was exactly the answer Edge had been expecting.

He wasn’t sure what to do with it, though, so he just shook his head and turned back to the sauce.

Bono was quiet for a while, in that contemplative way that often resulted in either trouble or brilliance, and sometimes the two came hand in hand. Leaning against the refrigerator, he nursed his wine glass as he watched Edge, and when Edge finally gave in and glanced over, there surprisingly wasn’t a smile to be found. 

“You alright?” he asked, because he had to. He always had to even when Bono gave him a reason to regret ever opening his big mouth.

Bono chuckled lightly. “Me? Why wouldn’t I be?” Sipping from his glass, he pushed away from the fridge and started across the kitchen, before stopping and heading back the way he came. “Do you want me to get out some bowls?”

“Sure,” Edge said. “But they don’t live in the fridge.”

“I know where the bowls are, Edge,” Bono grumbled as he stepped up to the counter. Immediately, he proved himself wrong, and, after opening the right cupboard on his second try, a smirk was thrown Edge’s way. A little too smug for such a minor achievement, Edge felt.

“Well done,” he drawled. “Could you manage some cutlery as well, or would that be too strenuous?”

“Fuck you,” Bono said.

They kept the television on low during dinner, and Edge wasn’t sure why exactly. Bono had turned it on before sitting down first, selecting the seat facing away from the television. “You don’t want to sit here?” Edge had asked. 

Looking slightly bewildered by the question, Bono had simply said, “No?” before pulling his bowl closer toward him. 

“Oookay.”

The pasta was a little too saucy, which Edge balanced out by adding extra cheese, and then it was too cheesy, so he gave up his search for perfection and just drank his wine, picking at his food when he felt the need for it. Really, he wasn’t that hungry, but Edge knew if he didn’t at least try to eat something now, he would be starving by midnight. And being on the quest for a midnight snack never resulted in good eating, he had found after years and years of bad life choices.

Over Bono’s shoulder, there was plenty of violence going on, though Edge doubted very much good writing. He didn’t recognize the movie, but he did recognize Van Damme, and that was enough for him. 

Sitting back in his chair, he watched Bono eat like a man who had been deprived of his last three meals. It was never a pretty sight, but for some reason he couldn’t quite turn away. 

No, he knew the reason, and as he watched Bono blankly stare into his bowl, completely oblivious to his surroundings as he shoveled in the food, a single word appeared at the forefront of Edge’s mind, demanding respect.  _ Why? _

He didn’t quite have a solid answer. There were fragments of some, floating around in his brain as if memories caught in a dust storm, lingering thoughts on conversations that had been so inconsequential that he’d replayed them in his mind over and over until he’d started to question if they had ever even taken place. 

A hand on his arm, a scent on a pillow, popcorn at three am, and so many bad life choices that couldn’t quite outweigh the brilliant ones. 

There was so much,  _ so  _ much that Edge didn’t quite know where to start, or even if he wanted to. It seemed whenever he tried, he found himself stuck on that one night, on the feel of stubble against his chin, and a moan that had taken over the sound of the waves. Five years, and he still didn’t have an answer. Longer, so much longer, and no, he couldn’t quite explain it. 

He just knew the realities of life, as odd and bewildering as they could be. It happened, or it didn’t, that seemed to be the way things went in life, though Edge had always been interested in the between. Searching for all the facts, and sometimes he felt like he was always searching. There were times when he didn’t know what exactly he was looking for. But it was something.

_ Why? _

_ Because. _

It was more like backtalk from a child than an answer, but as soon as it occurred to Edge, the dust all but settled.  _ Because  _ felt like an absolute, like a reason for everything, and it was enough to make him sit back and consider it all, like the rational man that he was.  _ Because  _ was an answer, because it wasn’t. 

It had happened because it had happened, plain and simple, and there was nothing Edge could do to change that. Nothing he could do to figure out why, and reverse it. To uncomplicate things and go back to the way it was before, because if he thought about it, really thought about it, Edge wasn’t entirely sure there was a before. 

It just was. It  _ was _ . He could admit it, maybe not to a reflection, but he could say it where it counted most. And yet. . .

It was a small victory.

He had to look at the facts.

There was an engagement ring burning a hole in his suitcase upstairs. And that was only the tip of the iceberg, Edge knew. It was one thing he did know. Though, as he sat there watching Bono wipe the sauce from his chin, confidence seemed to settle in fast. And maybe it was false hope, maybe it was just denial, but Edge knew he didn’t want the feeling to go away.

_ I can do this.  _

Bono didn’t have to know. No one had to know. 

_ I can do this. _

He could.

Somehow.

It was going to be fine. 

So what if he had feelings. . . 

No, it was going to be fine. Better than fine, it was going to be easy. 

Wasn’t it?

Could he go on like normal, with Bono constantly neglecting to remember how personal space worked? Hugging and kissing and smiling like he knew all of God’s little secrets, and maybe Bono did; maybe Bono was even one of those little secrets himself. Could he drink too much when Bono was around, without slipping, knowing what he knew now? Or even suggest lyrics without Bono wondering if Morleigh really was the inspiration for every single word that left Edge’s mouth.

Christ, was he going to write songs about Bono now?

Had he  _ already _ ? 

It was possible. It was entirely probable, and there was so much that Edge still hadn’t quite figured out, him keeping calm and carrying on being at the top of that list. 

But no, he could do this. It was fine. It was just fine. It wasn’t like he wore his heart on his sleeve, after all. 

It would be fine.

Yes.

Of course.

It  _ was  _ fine.


	8. (And Finally. . .)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome to the drama that is this chapter. The incredibly long chapter. The chapter that was meant to be one with the previous chapter. My god, I need an intervention. 
> 
> There's some stuff here that's a bit heavy, and mention of suicide, but I hope it's all okay. I don't know when the next chapter will be, but I look forward to that one greatly - it's the one I've been plotting since the beginning. Enjoy, love to all

“- and, I don’t know, maybe some fish?”

_Fish?_

Edge blinked. Bono was talking about fish.

Bono was talking about fish?

“Um. What?”

Bono stared at him. “Floating through the cosmos again, are we?” he asked, missing the smile that usually accompanied such words.

“What?” Edge said again, and it wasn’t entirely helpful.

“You’ve barely eaten anything.” It came out almost like an accusation, and Edge glanced down at his bowl, partly to see if what Bono had said was true, but mostly to give himself a moment to figure out what the fuck was happening. “Tomorrow, Edge. At the market?”

“Right.” Edge nodded. “The market is tomorrow, right.”

Bono levelled him with a _look_ , rubbing his nose as if it were out of joint. “You’d forgotten all about it, hadn’t you.”

He had. It was as if it had only been mentioned once by Thomas, days ago, and not been discussed since. But he wasn’t going to say such a thing when Bono was already looking at him like that. “Well, it hasn’t exactly topped my list of priorities these past few days, B,” he retorted, because he just couldn’t help himself.

Oh yeah, it was all going to be just fine.

Expecting a somewhat passionate and loud response from Bono, Edge was somewhat surprised when he didn’t get anything remotely close. Instead, Bono just slumped back, eyes narrowed with his head tilted slightly to the left, frowning as if he were regarding a riddle. One that he couldn’t quite crack.

“What?”

Bono just shook his head, his gaze shifting to a point just above Edge’s shoulder as he reached for his glass. His eyelids were starting to tinge red, the colour deepening with the rub of a knuckle. When Bono smiled, it was an effort; too tight, and not something Edge could believe.

Something was wrong.

He had been so caught up in himself that he’d barely noticed, but Edge knew. Something was really wrong. “Bono-”

“I thought,” Bono cut in, “that we could go early and beat the crowd, maybe have a look around town while we’re there?”

Edge paused. Bono was still focused on the wall, his fingertips dancing against the hard wood of the table, and there were so many things that Edge could say. He could mention that a quiet time probably didn’t exist at a market in a French town during summer. Or that they didn’t even know what time the market was starting. Or even that Edge doubted very much that they would be out of the cottage by ten am, and mostly that fell on him, if he had to blame someone.

Mostly, he just wanted to ask. Again. But God knows he would just get the same goddamn response of, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

_Sometimes it gets to me, you know? I just - I don’t know, Edge, I’m fuckin’ tired. . ._

He should.

Instead, he just said, “Okay.”

Bono looked at him then, with a small smile as he said, “Good. Great. I want to see the Cathedral, Edge, Johnny says it’s breathtaking.”

“Pigozzi?”

“Mmm. Do you want some more wine?” he asked. Edge waved his hand, regretting his choice when Bono emptied the bottle into his own glass, filling it up almost to the rim. “I’m going to have to invest in a few bottles of this when I get home. ‘94, what a great year. Thomas has some seriously good taste in wine, Edge.”

After sipping from his glass, Bono continued, “You know, I went to see Monsieur Pigozzi before we came here, maybe a week ago now. Friday?” He shrugged. “It’s unreal to think, but we’d not actually seen each other since before Popmart. I couldn’t believe it, but it’s true.”

There was a pause when Bono took another sip from his glass, one that Edge felt he had to cover with a quiet, “Right,” because he needed to say something. He wasn’t entirely sure where Bono was headed, and there was an uneasy feeling dancing at the base of his neck, making him wonder, making him fret, but at least Bono had some light in his eyes.

“It’s incredible how time passes, Edge, isn’t it? Those extraordinary moments, gone like _that_.” He snapped his fingers. “Of course, Johnny and I, we’d not seen each other since Michael passed, so, I mean,” he laughed, “naturally some drink was taken, and eventually we ended up talking about Michael, about how fucking unfair it all is. Because it is, isn’t it? He should be here, and it’s so fucking unfair that he’s not.”

“B-”

“Johnny told me that recently he’s not been able to stop talking about death, and it was starting to become a problem,” Bono said with a half shrug, his lip quirking. “I mean, it’s not really dinner party talk, is it? And then he starts telling me about the funeral he’d been to, just two days before, for a wife of one of his friends. Edge, this friend of his, they were happily married for twenty years, one of those couples that make you believe in love, Johnny says, the type you are so sure will live until they’re a hundred and then die within a few days of each other.” He shook his head, and Edge thought of Ali. “One day, this friend of Johnny’s, he comes home from a night out and finds his wife in a bathtub filled with her own blood. She’d slit her wrists, and hadn’t even left a note.” Bono looked at Edge. “Twenty years, Edge,and he never saw it coming.”

Edge hadn't been prepared for this sort of talk. “Jesus,” he breathed. There was nothing else he could say, and even that single utterance was enough to catch in his throat. He could only imagine.

“After twenty years. . ." Bono smiled tightly, his fingertips dragging along the table. “It just goes to show, you can know someone for so long, and still have them surprise you.”

“I-”

Bono let out a short laugh. “I wish I’d known, her husband said later. I wish I had been able to help her.”

Suddenly, Edge knew exactly where this was going. “I’ve never thought of that reaction as being entirely healthy.”

“No,” Bono mused. “But it’s natural, isn’t it? No matter how hard you try to fight it, you always end up back there, thinking 'I wish I had done more'.” The laugh came again, bitter and short, leaving Edge feeling completely unsettled. “It can be a dangerous thought to be stuck on, can’t it? In fact, I can’t think of a single good thought that starts with 'I wish I had', only pain and regret. I wish I had applied myself better. I wish I had been a better son. I wish I’d returned their phone call before it was too late.” Rubbing his hand against his mouth, Bono focused hard on his empty bowl.

The look on his face made Edge’s chest clench. He wanted to get up, walk around the table and pull Bono close. He wanted to tell him all the things he could think of to make him smile. He wanted to leave the room and not deal with any of it, because it was too hard and he couldn’t do a single thing. “You can’t think like that, B.”

“I’m just-” Bono threw his hands up. “I still don’t know _why_ , and it hits me when I least expect it, you know? I’m just so fucking angry sometimes.”

“I know.”

“I know you do.” And with that, Bono all but deflated in his seat, as if his life force had been drained from him. Propping his head up with his left hand, he looked at the table and then at Edge, and the smile that appeared on his face was almost relaxed. Almost. Though Edge could see right through it. “I feel better now,” he admitted.

“Really?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t know, Edge.” He let out a sigh that turned into a groan. “No, I do. Today has just been. . . I don’t know. I’ll do better tomorrow.”

“You’ll _do_ better? Bono-”

“I think I’ll have a bath,” Bono cut in, and Edge couldn’t fucking believe him.  After the story he’d just told?

“Seriously?”

“Do you need a hand cleaning up?”

Edge stared at him. At least he’d asked. He couldn’t be annoyed when Bono had at least asked. Though it wasn’t the same as offering, he knew. Waving a hand, he said, “I’ll take care of it.”

Bono was already pushing his chair back from the table, though he paused to smile down at Edge briefly, and it almost reached his eyes. His voice was thick when he said, “Thank you,” and for a moment it looked as if he didn’t want to go. But it was only a moment, and then he was off, heading up the stairs with a glass of wine in his hand, and from the way he was walking Edge could have sworn he’d aged twenty years in a single day.

He waited until he was sure Bono was out of earshot before saying, “You’re welcome,” the words feeling hollow in the emptiness of the room.

On the screen, there was still nothing but violence. Edge watched the gunfire until he couldn’t stand it anymore, and had to get up and turn the television off.

He’d barely eaten half of his dinner, and in the time since he’d touched it, it had become a congealed mess of cheese and sauce. It felt like such a waste to throw it out, though, so he wrapped the bowl in cling film and shoved it in the fridge. Maybe he’d eat it tomorrow, maybe he wouldn’t. Tonight, it was no longer his problem.

The rest of the dishes went in the sink to soak, just another thing that he didn’t feel like dealing with. He left the empty wine bottle on the counter to remind Bono. It had been a great drop of wine, after all, and he hoped that Bono did end up buying a few more bottles. He hoped that he would be invited around to indulge in a bottle of two, and maybe it would just be the two of them. . .

He couldn’t think like that.

He was fine.

He was.

Desperate for a distraction, Edge found himself outside looking up at the moon. The night was clear and humid, and he could hear the bugs buzzing around the light above his head.

The ladder was still propped up against the wall. Christ, he’d almost forgotten about the fucking thing. “Shit,” he said simply, and it was a rather large understatement, but what could he do?

It was too late to tell Bono the truth. It was too late to tell Bono a lot of things.

Maybe there wouldn’t be any birds in the morning. Maybe it was just a one off thing and they had flapped away to find another cottage to disrupt.

No, really, he could just blame the heat. Of course he could. It was that easy. Bono would understand. He’d been worried enough to mother Edge, he would easily believe that Edge had missed a goddamn hole in the roof.

“It’s fine,” Edge told himself, like the completely stable person that he was. And it was fine. It was all fine.

He glanced back up at the moon for encouragement, and for a moment, he could almost believe.

Upstairs, he pressed his ear to the bathroom door and listened. For what, he wasn’t entirely sure, and when he heard no signs of life it wasn’t nearly as reassuring as he had hoped.

In Bono’s bedroom, he sat on the bed and looked up at the ceiling, listening out for any sounds that might have been birdlike, and he knew just how ridiculous he was being, but he couldn’t help himself.

There was nothing, which he knew would be the case before he’d even stepped foot inside the room. It was night time, for Christ’s sake, of course there was nothing.

Still, he sat on the bed for a while longer, just looking up at the roof until he grew bored of it. Glancing around the room, he took in Bono’s suitcase, left open and looking as if a small bomb had exploded in it. On the bedside table, there was an empty glass and his copy of _The Great Gatsby_ , resting on top of a notebook that had seen better days.

Mostly, Bono did his writing on his laptop, but sometimes he did still break out the notebook, and, secretly, Edge preferred it that way. Even if it meant it was harder to read and easier to lose, still he felt more, reading Bono’s words in his scribbled handwriting. It was more personal than the words on a computer screen.

He flipped through the notebook and then felt guilty for it after slipping it back under the other book. He’d recognized some of the lyrics in there, while others had been new; raw and mostly lovely.

They made Edge wonder.

He closed the door behind him, sneaking past the bathroom like a man that had committed a heinous crime.

It was getting late, but Edge found himself picking up the phone anyway. It had been a long day, an interesting day, a day that he couldn’t quite sum up with a single, defining word, and he longed to hear her voice, if only to reassure him that, yes, it really was going to be okay. 

He got the machine, and it wasn’t a total surprise, but still Edge found himself a bit disappointed. “Hi love,” he started after the _beep_ , “it’s only me. Just thought I would check in, see how everyone was. Maybe I’ll try again tomorrow, at a more reasonable hour. Uh, I hope you’re all well, I miss you guys. But - I’ll try again tomorrow. We’re all fine here.”

He hung up not entirely sure if he’d just told a lie or not. Flopping down on the bed, Edge turned his head just so and the slightest hint of Bono’s cologne invaded his senses. It caught him completely off guard, tugging at his chest, making him think, making him wonder -

He sat up.

_I can do this._

Of course he could.

He could.

There was nothing in his bedroom that he needed right now, and soon enough Edge found himself back in the hallway, with a slight need to use the bathroom and the barest taste of sour wine on his tongue the only excuses he had. And they were excuses, they were completely legitimate, and it was a little funny, after the morning they’d had, that Edge had to pee while Bono was in the bathroom. The tables had turned, and of course he could have held on, but -

No, he had to go. He really -

He had to check on Bono. That was all there was to it. After the dinner they’d had, Edge had to see him.

He knocked lightly on the door, waiting for the _yeah?_   before opening the door a crack. “Bono?”

“You can come in.”

“Sorry,” Edge said as he slipped inside the room, shutting the door behind him. Why, he wasn’t entirely sure. They were completely alone. “I just really need to pee.”

They really were completely alone. Of course he’d been aware of that, almost painfully too aware, but it struck him completely just how alone they were when he spotted Bono in the tub. The water had to have been cooling by now, but still there was a flush to Bono’s cheeks, his neck, his chest, and where there might have been bubbles, there was now just clear water that left nothing to the imagination. If Edge stepped just a bit closer. . .

Well, he’d seen it all before. But that had been _before._ “Sorry,” he said again, and there was a chance he was apologizing for the thought that had streaked through his mind; a quick flash of flushed skin and heavy breathing.

_I can do this._

Bono waved a hand, the water sloshing. “It’s fine.”

Of course it was. Wasn’t it?

Bono certainly looked better than he had downstairs. More relaxed. Calmer. Flushed. With his damp hair pushed back and a bemused smile on his face as he watched Edge. As he continued to watch Edge, lazily dragging a hand through the water. The glass of wine was mostly empty, and Bono looked better than fine.

“Earth to Edge.”

“What?”

Chuckling, Bono gestured towards the toilet. “Don’t keep me in suspense here.”

“Right.” Edge stepped up to the toilet, feeling completely self conscious about the whole thing, and maybe it had been a bad idea coming in to the bathroom when Bono was so clearly fine.

But he hadn’t been. God, he’d not been fine. And maybe he still wasn’t. Sometimes, he hid it all away until he couldn’t anymore, in a way that people who didn’t know him would never have guessed. Emotional until he wasn’t, that was Bono. Fine until he exploded. 

He’d had to come in, completely and utterly. But now that he was here, and there was expectation, Edge wasn’t entirely sure he could finish the job. Why the fuck had he said he’d needed to pee? Why couldn’t he have just said he needed to brush his teeth? Or come inside and gawk for a couple of minutes, really let Bono know what he was thinking. They really were so completely alone.

“Are you okay?”

He was staring at a fucking toilet. “Uh.” The water sloshed violently behind him, snapping him back to his senses before Bono could lurch across the room. “I’m fine,” he insisted. “God, I think I’m tired.” The laugh he let out was a bit too forced, but when he glanced back Bono had started to settle back in the water. There was an odd little expression on his face and he was frowning hard, but he was down, and that was really all that was important.

Turning back to face the wall, Edge undid his shorts before giving it his best shot. It was hard, he could feel Bono’s gaze boring into his back, and it had never been much of a problem before, pissing with someone else in the room, but Jesus _Christ_.

After flushing the toilet, he washed his hands briskly before reaching for his toothbrush.

“I could live here, Edge,” Bono announced. Edge nearly dropped his toothbrush in the sink.

“What? No you couldn’t, you’d go mad after a while.”

“No,” Bono said simply, and he was smiling when Edge turned around to face him. “I could live here.” He sounded certain of himself, but Edge still wasn’t entirely convinced. There was still that look about him that made Edge wonder.

“Bono. . .”

Bono heaved out a sigh. “Alright, maybe I would go mad after a while, but it would be great for a holiday home.”

“You already have a holiday home in France,” Edge pointed out, but Bono wasn’t listening.

“We should buy it, you and me.”

“We already bought a place together.”

“We could run away from time to time, just the two of us,” Bono said with a wicked smile, and maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. “Get away from it all, huh? You could cook pasta and I could-”

“Drink?”

“- write.” Bono levelled him with a steady glare, but the smile was fighting its way back to the surface. “Fuck you, you drink just as much as I do.”

Again, Edge wasn’t entirely convinced. “Yeah, well.” With a shrug, he turned back to the mirror. “It sounds good in theory, B, but I doubt Thomas would give up the place.”

“Oh, I think I could convince him.”

“How? He doesn’t like you.”

“Everyone likes me,” Bono insisted. “And the ones that don’t can be paid large sums of money for their beautiful French cottages.”

Edge shook his head. “Whatever you say, B.” It was surprising, Edge couldn’t help but think, just how calm his voice was, when upstairs his brain had come alive. _Again_ . With the littlest of thoughts, but they were thoughts, few in number but persistent, and when he tried to move on to more important business like brushing his teeth, it proved almost impossible. A cottage. _This_ cottage. Just the two of them in this cottage, whenever they had the chance.

Of course they had Èze, but it wasn’t like it had been those first few times anymore, just the two of them and the waves.

It was Ali and Morleigh and the girls, it was Larry and Adam poking their heads in and Gavin for days at a time, sleeping on the floor after an all-nighter as Jordan did her best to quietly navigate around him while Eve applied as little effort as her father might. It was meetings upon meetings during a time reserved for ‘holiday’ and a phone that seemed to ring constantly.

It was a stretched out beach that held so many memories that sometimes Edge’s chest ached at the sight.

They were rarely alone in Èze, and he did love the company, he _did_ , and Christ he loved her, but -

But.

But it could be just the two of them. And there was so much Edge’s mind could do with such an idea, so much it was already doing, and Bono was barely five steps behind him, naked in a cooling bath. How could he not think such things?

There was another thought, though, one that Edge didn’t quite know what to do with, and that was _why_?

Why did Bono want a cottage just for the two of them?

To write and drink and eat pasta away from it all, just the two of them?

Maybe that was a calming thought for Bono. Maybe that’s all there was to it. That’s all there had to be to it, certainly.

“I just wanted to try that,” Bono had said, before proceeding to never try again.

“Edge!”

His toothbrush clattered into the sink.

“What?” Edge almost shouted as he whipped around to find Bono leaning over the side of the bath, looking somewhat unnerved. Sometimes, Edge was almost sure that Bono could read his mind. Other times, he feared it.

After a moment's pause, Bono asked, “Are you sure you’re alright?” and clearly that was the question of the day.

“Why?” Edge shook his head. “I mean . . .what? I’m fine.”

Bono’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re fine,” he said evenly. “Staring blankly at the toilet and your toothbrush is fine, sure, okay.”

He had a point. Even if either of those things weren’t really the oddest things Edge had done all day. That wasn’t really an argument that Edge felt like he should offer up though. The questions that would come from that. . .

“You’re one to talk.” It slipped out, and immediately Edge regretted it. When he turned back to the mirror, he could feel Bono’s gaze burning into the back of his head. He shouldn’t have said that. Why had he said that? Why had he said _just_ that? It was so easy to throw out an _I didn’t mean that_ before Bono jumped down his throat, not that it would do much good. Often, Bono had trouble focusing on the after when he was so stuck on the now.

Bono sounded calm when he said, “What’s that supposed to mean?” but Edge knew how these things generally went. It was a make or break situation, and Edge wasn’t entirely sure how to direct it the way he wanted to.

He tried. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Like _what_ , Edge?”

He failed. He didn’t even have to turn around to know that; it was in the air, in Bono’s tone. There was about to be an awakening, one that Edge didn’t entirely fancy on a night when his defence was so ill prepared for Bono’s offence. There was one thing that he could try, though, as low as it was. “I don’t know, I think, I-I’m still not feeling a hundred percent after this morning.”

It was bullshit, but Edge knew Bono. “Really? In what way?” The water sloshed behind him, and Edge felt as low as dirt. “Christ, I should have called for a fucking doctor.”

Lower than dirt. “I’m alright, really,” Edge said with a wave of the hand. “I just feel . . .drained, I guess.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. “Nothing a good night’s sleep can’t fix.”

“Are you sure?” Bono said after a beat of silence.

“Absolutely. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.” Whether that was really true or not remained to be seen, but Edge had to think positively. It was either that, or he could stab himself to death with his toothbrush.

The media would have a field day.

More silence followed, and Edge figured it was best to keep it that way. Picking up his toothbrush, he found himself inspecting it for at least ten seconds too long - an absurdly long time to look at a toothbrush, he knew. If he had an open wound, or even went for the eye. . .

_Idiot._

He needed to leave. Leave the bathroom as quick as he could, and right now, it was probably for the best. He wasn’t sure why, exactly, it was just a feeling he had. Leave before he could say too much more, because it just felt like one of those nights. A night where he couldn’t quite hold his tongue; a night when Bono wasn’t entirely sure what emotion he wanted to stick with, so he’d decided to take them all out for a test drive. And Edge couldn’t even be frustrated with him for that, because Bono was Bono, and anyway, recently Edge was sure he was just as bad.

All he had to do was brush his teeth and leave, go hide in his room and try and say goodbye to the day, and what a day it had been. There wasn’t a single word in the English language that Edge could think to describe his day, though it was possible the French had come up with something. They were lovers, after all.

Bono was quiet.

Bono was alarmingly quiet.

Edge didn’t look back. No, he couldn’t. It was worrying, yes, and a little weird, but he couldn’t look back. If he looked back, he knew he would walk back. Cross the room in five steps until he was stepping straight on into the danger zone. Maybe on another night, when he’d had enough time to process and breathe, maybe when Bono wasn’t so naked, wasn’t so quiet, wasn’t so vulnerable - and he was, recently he had been, in a way that Edge, knowing what he knew now, could possibly twist and turn to his advantage.

_No._

It wasn’t the right line of thought. It was never the right line of thought, and he was feeling a little scattered, a little bit lost all of a sudden, and he had no idea how he was going to sleep when his mind wouldn’t stop turning.

There wasn’t a chance. He knew. He _knew_ , and there was an engagement ring in his suitcase, and there was Ali and the girls, and there were years and years of friendship that they just couldn’t waste; that he _refused_ to let go of. He’d been over this. Why couldn’t he let go of it?

He had to. He would. He could. But first, he just had to brush his teeth.

It was something that he could do, and he did it splendidly.

Behind him, Bono remained silent. So silent that it was moving from weird to curious, and as Edge brushed he listened out for the shift of water. Nothing. Not only was Bono silent, he was also still. There was something happening behind him, that was for sure. Some serious thinking, and Edge wasn’t sure whether he wanted to know or not.

Except that he did. Quite badly, and he was tempted to ask, to turn around and look, and it wasn’t helpful in the least. The plan was to just say goodnight and leave, start again in the morning when he’d had some time to decompress and deal with his . . .

_Everything._

It was the plan, and he was sticking to it, no matter what. They could talk tomorrow. They would talk tomorrow, no doubt, and Edge knew that was fine. It was better than fine, it was great. Tomorrow he would be able to look Bono in the eye and remain cool, calm and collected, because he just needed the night. Just one night alone, and it would all be fine.

Just fine.

He spat, rinsed his toothbrush off and his mouth out, and, after wiping his face clean with the towel, he started toward the door with every intention of raising his hand and uttering a casual, “See you in the morning,” like they hadn’t just spent the last few minutes in awkward silence.

Bono got in first.

“I think it’s funny,” he said, “how similar you and Ali can be.”

It was something Edge had heard before, something he’d never quite been able to see, but Bono was always adamant about it, and when Edge and Ali had exchanged contemplative glances in the past, there had been a knowing smile on Bono’s face.

He’d heard it all before, but it wasn’t something he was entirely prepared for this time round. Not on such a day, when his brain was already trying to present all the wrong results while the solution seemed so simple. In theory.

It make him think, made him start to ponder exactly how Bono viewed them as being similar, and at least five different scenarios flew through his head so quickly that when he turned around to face Bono, the knowing smile he received was almost enough to send him into overload. “What?”

“I’m not stupid, I know when I’m being manipulated,” Bono said, and Edge had heard that before, too. “And you both know that, yet you still try it.”

He didn’t look mad. In fact, he looked almost amused by whole thing. It was rather disquieting, and Edge didn’t quite know where to look. He chose the wall, the door, the window and then back on Bono, where that little smile looked far too bright in contrast to the rest of his face. “I don’t-”

“Edge.”

No, he was done for. “Fine,” he said. “I didn’t mean-”

“You really did scare me today,” Bono cut in quietly. “I spent the entire afternoon wondering if you were okay, if I had done enough.”

Lower than dirt. Really. “Look, Bono-”

“I’m not mad,” Bono insisted, and Edge believed him. He didn’t seem mad. That was worrying enough in itself. “I just wanted you to know. That I know. I see _eveeerything_ , Edge.” He laughed then, short and loud, before silencing himself with the last of his wine.

Completely disquieting. “Alrighty,” Edge said, unsure of what else to say. There had to be something else he could say. “Thanks? I mean, I’m - I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Ali thought it was a good idea for me to get away for a while.” Bono shook his head. “She never said it outright, because you know what she’s like-”

 “Yeah.”

“- but she hinted at it for at least a month, as subtle as a brick to the face.” He set down his glass, his gaze piercing as he looked back at Edge. “Worked away at me in her own gentle way, thinking she was being cunning.”

 “She means well.”

“I know. I know she does, and as usual,” Bono smiled, “she was right, God love her.”

“She usually is.” Edge looked to the door. “Anyway-”

“I’ve not felt like myself these past few months, I don’t think,” Bono said. He was still smiling, but it was faint, like it had been chipped away until there was nothing but shards. It didn’t reach his eyes, and Edge couldn’t help but take a step closer. “I can’t explain it, I just. It feels as though I’ve been coming out of my skin, you know?  Like nothing has changed, but yet so much has caught up to me that I’ve, I don’t know. I just,” he shrugged, “I felt like I was drifting away from. . . you all.” Another shrug followed, and then a light chuckle, as Bono watched his fingers drag through the bathwater. “It’s good that we’re here, I think. Ali was right, of course. I needed the break. But I think you did too.”

Edge couldn’t deny it.

So he didn’t. He didn’t say anything, because what could he say? That he’d not realized, that he’d been so caught up that he’d not seen it? He couldn’t, because as he thought it over, let it roll through his mind, Edge knew he’d been aware. A part of him had known, and he’d just pulled away. Taken a step back as Bono worked, worked, _worked_ himself down, and it had been fine, because wasn’t it always?

“Even when I’m there, sometimes I’m not entirely sure I am,” Bono had said over the phone, in a conversation that felt almost like a lifetime ago now. Edge had barely been awake at the time.

“Have you talked to Ali?” he asked when the silence became too much. It felt odd saying her name, a bit biting, in a way that it never had before, and Edge wasn’t entirely sure when he had become . . . that person.

“I’m talking to you,” Bono replied, and Edge took another step forward. “I _want_ to talk to you.”

Edge knew he wasn’t the right person, that he wouldn’t have the answers Bono needed, whatever they were. But still he said, “Okay then.”

Bono nodded. There was a strange little expression on his face that Edge couldn’t quite figure, and it didn’t seem right for the conversation they were having. That they were about to have, whatever it was. Edge didn’t know. He just didn’t know, and it was killing him. “Come here,” Bono said, and it was unnecessary. Edge was already walking forward. “Sit down, I want to tell you a story.”

It wasn’t entirely what Edge had expected, and immediately he thought of the last story Bono had told him. A bath full of blood, and where was Bono? He hovered, a little uncertain. “What - a story?”

“It’s not really - actually, I’m not even sure what it is,” Bono mused. “It’s just, being here, I keep thinking, I suppose. Christ, Edge, will you sit down? You’re looming over me like you’re fucking Frankenstein.”

“Frankenstein was the doctor,” Edge said automatically, sitting down on the ledge when Bono shot him a fierce glare. From his position, he could easily see straight on through the clear water that had to be going cold by now. It was a distraction. It was a terrible, terrible distraction, and he fought to keep his gaze on Bono’s face. Fought hard, and it took him a moment, but then he remembered the point he was making. “He wasn’t the monster.”

“I disagree.”

It was a valid argument. “Alright.”

Bono looked smug. For all of a moment, and then his smirk just slipped away, leaving him lost. “What I was saying?”

Edge sighed. “I really could not tell you, Bono,” he said. Then, when Bono continued to just stare, he added, “Something about being here-”

“Right.” Bono reached for his glass, uttering a quiet _oh_ when he realized it was empty. “That’s disappointing.”

“We could go downstairs?” Edge suggested. Downstairs sounded marvelous. With Bono out of the bath and wrapped in a towel, or a robe, or even some actual clothes, so Edge didn’t have to focus so hard on how drained his goddamn face was. Downstairs there was more wine, more distractions, and more reasons just to walk away.

“Do you remember that night?” Clearly, downstairs was not happening. “I might have drowned had you not come and found me.”

Edge sucked in a shallow breath. “What night was that?” he asked, though he already knew. His arms started to prickle. He knew. “You wouldn’t have drowned,” he added when Bono didn’t answer, and from the smile he received - that fucking _knowing_ smile - he knew he should have just stayed quiet. “You were propped up in such a way that wouldn’t have allowed it.” He couldn’t stop himself. It was actually a problem.

“I could have shifted,” Bono said. “I might had slid down, who knows what might have happened had you not come in?”

“You would have woken up as soon as you went under,” Edge countered, and from the silence that followed, clearly Bono couldn’t think of a feasible response. Which was probably for the best. Edge just wanted to be done with the whole thing. That night was just a heartbeat away from the one that had followed. If Bono were to bring up that night . . .

“I was just thinking about it, before you came in.” Bono shrugged. “I often find myself thinking about that night when I’m in the bath. The warmth of the water, the quiet of the room, it’s almost enough to lull me right on to sleep. Again.” He laughed. “If there were a safe way to sleep in the bath, I might just consider it, Edge.”

“Until it went cold.”

“I don’t mind.”

Edge rubbed at his neck. “Right. Right. You said -”

“I remember that night quite clearly, and I’m not entirely sure why,” Bono cut in. There was that look on his face again. It wasn’t a comfort, and for a moment, Edge had to glance away. “The water had gone cold while I was sleeping. I woke up to you, holding onto my arm and calling me a fucking idiot and-”

“You were confused as to why I was being so mean,” Edge murmured. He had been confused. He’d been so confused, and Edge found himself wondering if Bono really remembered properly, or if he’d just pieced together the images from the story Edge had told others. He’d barely been awake, after all, and five years had passed.

Though it was amazing how many intricate details Edge still could remember five years on. From the way the waves had sounded to the warmth of Bono’s palm against his cheek, and all the things that came between. He remembered it all, intimately. Perhaps it wasn’t so strange to think Bono could recall a night, five years gone.

Even if he had been half asleep still.

“I was half tempted to drown you when you started laughing,” Bono said with a grin. “You bastard. I could have died, Edge.”

Edge rolled his eyes. “Is this really the story you wanted to tell me?” he asked, and a part of him was glad for it. He knew this story. As long as it didn’t wander, he was fine with this as a story. “It’s old hat by now, Bono.”

It was. A story he brought up from time to time, with friends to make them laugh or Bono just because he could, though he had never mentioned the hug. He never mentioned the way Bono had practically melted into him, how his hair had been damp against Edge’s fingers, like wet silk that demanded to be touched. No, some things were just for him to know.

“You sent me to bed like a naughty child,” Bono mused. Old hat or no, it seemed like it really was the story he intended to tell Edge. Which was fine, completely fine. It wasn’t a long story, really, though Bono could extend even the smallest of tales into a movie length saga. He just had that way about him, Edge supposed. That, and he was prone to exaggeration.

Or straight up lies.

“I did not, I simply _suggested_ that-”

Bono cut in with a dreamy, “I remember being so tired,” his head falling back against the bath with a gentle _thud_. “And yet when I did crawl into bed,” he glanced Edge, sidelong with a faint smirk, “like the naughty child that I was, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned for what must have been hours, and eventually I must have drifted off, but it couldn’t have been for long.”

“It was probably longer than you think,” Edge said. He wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t the most helpful of comments, and the way Bono looked at him told him it wasn’t entirely well received either.

“No, it was still dark when I awoke. Barely. I couldn’t fall back asleep, so I went and sat by the window and watched the sun rise over the water. You know what that view is like, Edge, it’s completely captivating. And I was. Captivated.” He smiled. “It was almost spiritual, in a sense. It is, _still_. Actually, that was the first time I had watched the sun rise in Èze, I think. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve watched it since. It’s such a beautiful sight, isn’t it?”

“Sure.”

Bono huffed out a laugh. “I remember feeling inspired, in that incredibly intense sort of way where you’re almost bodily shaking from the need to do something, _anything_. There wasn’t much I could do at such a time, though, so I headed out onto the balcony with a cup of coffee, and my notepad under my arm, intent on capturing the morning sky. My inspiration for the day. But when I walked out onto the balcony, there you were. Stretched out on the lounge chair, fast asleep.”

Edge swallowed, briefly choking on his own spit, and when Bono straightened - a look of mild concern appearing on his face, _mild_ \-  Edge waved off his concern with a grimace, wheezing out, “I’m f’okay,” like the cunning linguist that he was.

_f’okay?_

Christ, had that even been _English_?

It wasn’t the thing to focus on. Not in the least. Not when Bono was still looking at him like he was. Barely concerned anymore, because who hadn’t watched someone choke on basically nothing at least once or twice in their life? No, it was more. . .

Edge didn’t even know. It was a smile, of sorts, but Bono had so many of those, and he was forever coming up with something new. It was something, that’s all there was to it. It was enough to -

What? Enough to what?

He was fine. He wasn’t choking anymore, and if he glanced away he could focus on what was really important. Like what Bono had just said.

Because this part of the story, this he did not know. This was new, and he didn’t know why exactly, but it left Edge feeling slightly unsettled. Unsettled and intrigued, if he had to put another word to it, and maybe a bit panicked too, because he had no idea where Bono was going with this. 

It was fine, if Bono didn’t stray towards the night that followed. Edge could make it through, if Bono just stayed where he was.

Bono chose that moment to continue, his head back against the bath once more as he said, “You were asleep, looking so fucking peaceful in the morning light that, for a moment, I found myself jealous. There you were, looking like you hadn’t a care in the world, and there I was . . .” He shook his head. “You look like a different person with your eyes closed, did you know that?”

It wasn’t surprising. Most people did. Bono did, certainly. Calmer, with the years having slipped from his features, to a point where Edge could almost believe they had stepped back in time, if only while Bono was sleeping. All the complexities of life seemed a distant thought to Bono when he was far away and dreaming.

“When you’re on stage playing,” Bono said, his finger tap-tapping against his chin, “you’re razor sharp, you know? So focused, so - it’s like nothing could break through that wall of concentration, and God knows I try.” He laughed, and Edge joined him, a little uncertain, a little lost for what else he could do. “But then I find myself watching you while you sing, just _watching_ you, and you’re a different person then, Edge, with your eyes closed. You’re not thinking about what pedal to push or what chord to hit, you’re just carried away by the music. Aren’t you?”

It was a little stupefying. Edge blinked, searched for the words, and came up with nothing, really. Nothing that sounded right against what Bono had just said, and he knew Bono watched him sometimes, he _knew_ , but - “I’m still thinking about the cords,” he protested, limply.

 _Why_.

He just didn’t know. There was a chance Bono had slowly broken his brain these past few days, and it would be an explanation. Of sorts.

 _Why_ was a great starting point, though. Why was Bono saying this? Why now, why tonight, why in this place. Why was he still looking at Edge in that fucking way, with his hair slowly starting to dry in places, falling damp against his forehead in inky waves. Demanding that Edge reach out a hand and brush it all away. _Demanding_.

He didn’t. He couldn’t.

If he looked down, he could take it all in and paint a pretty picture, he could -

“There’s a softness,” Bono murmured, “to your face when you sing. When you have your eyes closed, when you’re asleep. You just look different, in a way that I cannot quite explain.”

He just had. “Bono-”

“You were curled in on yourself slightly, fighting off the early sea-breeze.” Bono smiled faintly. “I remember, there was a paper plate tucked underneath your thigh, and every now and then it would flutter in the breeze, and I was just so charmed by what I was seeing that I lost interest in the sunrise completely. I couldn’t help myself, you know? I did wait for a few minutes, drinking my coffee as I sat alongside you, waiting to see if you would wake up. And when you didn’t, I drew you instead of the sunrise.”

Edge breathed. In and out, in and out, keep it steady, keep it calm.

It was all he could do.

With a slight shiver wracking his body, Bono continued, “I was so scared that you would wake up. I don’t know why. I - you wouldn’t have been mad.” He glanced up, searching for confirmation, and managed to drag a short nod out of Edge. “Of course you wouldn’t. But it still felt - strange. But, you know, I had that feeling, that incredible urge, that _jolt_ of inspiration where I just had to. I had to. Because it calmed me.

“And you, how peaceful you looked made me feel better about - so many things. And while I was sketching you, you . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, actually. Uh, there was a point. I think I had a reason, I just -” He cut himself off with a shaky laugh, his gaze darting around the room. The wall, the ceiling, straight on down into the cooling bathwater, until finally, it settled back on Edge’s face. His eyes seemed darker, under the dim light. “Being here with you, in France, _alone_ , keeps reminding me of that one summer.”

_Our summer of love, Edge, do you remember? What a pair we made._

“I keep thinking." Bono let out a sigh. “I can’t seem to stop myself thinking, these past few months. And there’s just, it feels like so much sometimes, but being here with you . . . it’s a distraction from all that. It is, Edge. Thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome.” It was automatic, the words coming out calm; flat even, and distant, across the room and yet too close, too loud inside his mind. There was a crooked smile on Bono’s face, and Edge didn’t believe it for a second, but he couldn’t focus on that, he couldn’t, all he could think was . . .

Bono.

“That fucking summer. Our summer of love.” Chuckling, Bono shook his head. “Just us against the world, huh?”

“Right,” Edge said, distantly. “Right.” He watched Bono’s fingertips drag across his lower lip, unconsciously, thoughtfully. Knowingly, perhaps. And it was strange, how Edge couldn’t quite fight the urge to mimic the motion. Licking his lips, he tasted salt against the pad of his finger.

Their summer of love.

Bono’s eyes were dark, his index finger caught now between his teeth as he watched Edge right on back. He was silent, and Edge shifted in his seat. An inch closer, and if there were ever another moment, another chance, he had a feeling he was looking at it. Right then, with Bono watching him, quietly, sat in a cooling bath as he thought of five years gone.

Their summer of love.

Would Bono stop him?

He didn’t know.

He just didn’t know. There was so much that he didn’t . . .

An inch back, and Edge was looking toward the window. Bono dropped his hand, and when Edge found it in himself to glance back, barely four seconds later, it was as if nothing had changed. And maybe it hadn’t. Maybe he was just overthinking a nothing situation. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“I’m sorry, Edge.” The water sloshed almost violently as Bono wrapped an arm around his midsection, but his lip curved up in such a way that Edge could almost believe it was a smile, if he wanted to.

He was so stuck on Bono’s expression that it took him a moment to catch on to what had just been said. “Sorry?” Wracking his brain for an explanation, Edge came up empty. “For what?”

Bono screwed up his face, his fingers mussing the hair at his nape. He shrugged, sighed and let out a short chuckle that didn’t amount to much, before finally muttering, “I don’t know.” They lapsed back into silence, Bono pulling his arm closer around himself as he gave Edge a look that was reminiscent of Lady Diana. Chin down and through the lashes, leaving Edge with absolutely no fucking clue to what was going on.

He couldn’t help but think, though, and it left him feeling a little warm.

“You were going to bed.” Bono rolled his eyes up toward the heavens. “It wasn’t the most interesting of bedtime stories, was it?”

“Bono-”

“It’s alright,” he insisted. “The water has gone cold anyway.”

Edge could take a hint. Though part of him didn’t want to go. A big part, and it kept him lingering for a moment longer, waiting for Bono’s expression to change, and when it didn’t, Edge pulled himself to his feet. “Alright,” he said. “Better get out soon, though, don’t want to catch a cold.”

Bono looked away then, a tremor rushing through his body, and Edge gave in and glanced down. Straight through the clear, still water, and it was only a moment, it was everything he had seen before, but it was still almost enough to keep him from leaving. There were so many thoughts, running through his mind, and it was dangerous to consider any number of them. “Yeah,” Bono said quietly, and when Edge hesitated, he looked back with a thin lipped smile. “I’ll see you in the morning. Bright and early, we’re market folk now, remember?”

Edge nodded as he stepped back toward the door. “Right, bright and early,” he echoed, before turning to make a proper effort of leaving.

And it was strange, how distance could ground him, making him remember what he had planned, even if he did find himself pausing, with his fingers wrapped around the door handle as Bono called out, “Goodnight.”

There was a chance he said it back. There was a chance he didn’t. Edge wasn’t entirely sure, really, and when the door slipped shut behind him, he had to rest his back against the cool wood and just breathe. Quickly, quietly, slowly, and he was calm. He could sort his thoughts and find a way on through, with a door between the two of them and a short walk down the hall to complete solitude.

Where there would be two doors between them, and not a single drop of clear, still bathwater to draw him in. No conflicting gazes or eyes that flickered, that looked so deeply blue under the dim light that, at a distance, Edge was sure they were darker still.

Their summer of love.

_Edge, do you remember? What a pair we made._

It was strange, how distance could make him regret ever leaving the room in the first place.

Would Bono stop him? Would he?

It wasn’t something he should be thinking about. He knew that. He’d sorted that, completely and utterly. He’d had a plan, and it was something he could stick to; something he could look back on ten years down the road and know he’d done right by the lot of them. It was a plan. It was -

They’d spent a lot of days in Èze alone together, that summer. So many mornings that Bono could have thought of, that he could have picked from the bunch and found a story in, that didn’t feel so fucking intimate.

So many mornings that hadn’t bled into such a night.

Turning back toward the bathroom door, he stopped himself just in time. Pressed his palm against the cool wood, laughed at himself even, a slight chuckle that nearly turned, nearly became something more, something uncontrollable, because _really_.

It still was insane to even consider. And that thought alone was enough to push him away from the door and straight on down the short hallway. There were dishes in the sink still, soaking in water that had to be cold by now, as cold as Bono’s bathwater, and Edge knew he should go downstairs and do something about them, but he couldn’t. He didn’t know why.

He didn’t know a lot of things, and when his bedroom door closed behind him, Edge doubted himself further.

The room felt stuffy, hot, and he stripped off his shirt after flicking on the light, before pacing the room in search of a distraction. There were a couple of books on his night stand, and the pages felt so dry against his fingers that they were almost chafing.

He put up with it, settling down under the sheet with a book in one hand and his knee in the other, flexing his fingers as he concentrated hard on the words. After three pages, he gave up the charade, tossing the book to the ground in disgust. Really, he wasn’t even sure what he’d been reading, and he was a fucking idiot, in so many different ways.

“I just wanted to try that,” Bono had said, but before that, Bono had sketched him in his sleep. Bono had -

He couldn’t blame Bono. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t have even been thinking of it. Nothing had changed, since Edge had realized that, yes, he could do this. He had to do this.

But no matter which way he turned, how far the sheet was pushed down, how many droplets of water he tried to draw from the bottom of his glass, it just didn’t seem to make a difference. He felt hot, like he couldn’t get in enough air, and he was coming apart at the seams, he knew. It wasn’t something he could fight, not with two doors between them. And maybe it really was fine; after all, it wouldn’t have been the first time. It probably wouldn’t be the last time either.

How many nights had he spent awake, fighting the urge until he couldn’t anymore, until he just had to give in to the images darting through his brain? Nothing had changed.

Nothing.

It wasn’t cheating if he were to indulge.

It wasn’t.

And maybe he could sleep, after.

His shorts were kicked off before he could even think to reconsider, the skin of his thighs tingling in anticipation, trailing up to his belly and back down again, as he dragged his fingers through wiry hair.

It wasn’t cheating.

He’d been there before, he would be there again. Again and again, and he knew, sometimes you could lie, you could almost convince yourself, but it always came back in the dark. With his eyes closed so tightly he was seeing little white dots, the room closing in on him, expanding away from him until he could almost believe he was floating, if only he wasn’t so aware of his hand.

There had been dreams, so many dreams he just couldn’t comprehend, and sometimes there had been that little voice in the back of his mind, at the tips of his fingers, searching, gripping tighter, looser; dragging him further down, until he had almost lost himself.

He could lose himself still, lose himself so easily, and he wanted to. So badly.

It was the two of them on the kitchen floor, too desperate to find a softer surface, and Bono was so slick, so warm against him that Edge was sure he could suffocate. They both would, and Edge just pulled him closer, listened to him as he gasped  _Edge, Edge_  against burning skin.

No, he could hear the waves, and they were always the first thing he heard.

_Edge?_

“What are you doing?” Edge had asked, stupidly, and he didn’t know why, he didn’t.

On the kitchen floor, Bono tasted like everything he'd ever wanted. He was burning, burning up until he could barely breathe.

"What are you doing?" Edge had asked.

He’d let it happen. Soft, almost a question, and Bono had pulled back only just, his breath burning against Edge’s lips.

_Is this okay?_

He’d been the one to lean back in, tasting the whiskey as he gripped the back of the lounge chair, the front of Bono’s shirt, his neck, his hair, _tasting_ the whiskey. And it had been a little thing, again and again, cutting through the waves, and he could hear it, he could almost feel it -

Edge came with a stuttered gasp, shuddering through his body, catching in his chest until he was sure he would suffocate, and he wanted to, he wanted it _all_.

It jerked at his limbs, a violent aftershock, and then he was breathing, too fast and then smoother, and too quickly the feeling was gone. His stomach was slick, his cheeks burning and he didn’t quite know what to think, but when he closed his eyes it was all he could see.

“I just wanted to try that,” Bono had said, but before that, he’d been the first one to pull away.

Edge cleaned himself up as best he could, and after getting up to turn off the light, he steadied himself by the door before opening it just a crack. He wasn’t sure what he expected, what he hoped, but he was sure it hadn’t been the darkness he was faced with.

Gently, he shut the door before crossing the room and slipping back under the sheet. It was still too hot, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to sleep without a covering.

Not tonight. He was already feeling a little bit too exposed, though he knew he was being ridiculous. Completely ridiculous, about so many things. But still, no matter how many times he turned from side to side, he still couldn’t stop himself from thinking. And he knew.

It felt a little bit like cheating.


	9. Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *timidly taps the mic*
> 
> Is this thing on? Helloooo, yes, I am back, and I am SORRY, SO SORRY, PLEASE FORGIVE, but the past few months have not been good, but that's all in the past and here I am with an exciting, if rather short compared to the others, new chapter of Nexus! It was going to be longer, sooo much longer, but I've written bits and pieces of what will now be the next chapter and...well, to find a nice stopping point in all that southern France Bedgey goodness would be rather hard, and really all that should be contained in one chapter and I'm rambling and need to stop. Here is a new chapter, I hope you all like it. Please like it. Please still like me.

He wasn’t quite sure, but it felt like he was close to floating. Through the air, up, up, until he was being grabbed.

_ Edge. . . _

He didn’t want to. He was warm, so warm and . . . floaty. 

“Are you awake?”

He was being shook. Gently. But still. Shook. A hand on his shoulder, and Edge was almost awake. 

“Whaat?” His tongue felt thick, fuzzy, and when he finally managed to pry his eyes open he found the room at a dull light. And Bono, with his hair sticking this way and that, worrying his lip as he stared down at Edge. There was that look in his eye, though, the one that told Edge that he, too, was not entirely impressed by the awakening. “Oh,” Edge said dumbly. “Birds?”

“Birds,” Bono confirmed, hand on his hip now, and Edge’s brain still hadn’t quite woken up enough to process that. There were birds, and it was probably his fault, and he was probably a bastard, but it was too fucking early.

“Come on then.” The moment the words left his lips, Edge realized his mistake, but it was too late. The sheet was being pulled back, and Edge was naked. Bono was climbing in next to him, and Edge had submitted to a violent orgasm in that very spot only a few hours before.

He rolled over quickly, facing the window as Bono settled, and the silence that followed felt a little strange. Though maybe it was just him, projecting his own issues, as Bono tried his best to fall back to sleep. Something which seemed like a sound idea, and Edge had been so warm and comfortable. It was always a wonderful feeling, when he let himself sleep. Why didn’t he let himself sleep more?

“Edge,” Bono said, sounding far more awake than Edge might have guessed. “Are you naked?”

He couldn’t really lie. Not when all it would take was a simple rise of the sheet to prove otherwise. Not when Bono was so close to him, in a position where he could reach out a hand and find bare skin, confirm what he suspected with a slide of his palm. Just an easy slide, skin against skin.

Maybe he should lie?

No, he couldn’t. He just couldn’t, no matter how appealing that second idea seemed; appealing and a little mortifying, though he could roll over quite easily and give Bono something to -

He had to stop. It was far too early to be thinking such thoughts, and there was an engagement ring burning a hole in his suitcase, not ten feet away.

It was a risk that came with early morning awakenings, he found - the brain was still somewhat uninhibited, caught between real life and the dream world, where anything and everything could happen, if only you were to think it. He knew that, far too well.

“ _ Eeedge _ ? Are you?”

The motherfucker. Bono was seconds away from laughing, and Edge just couldn’t lie. Really, it wasn’t a big deal anyway. Bono had seen him naked plenty of times, and it was hot. 

The temperature. Just the temperature, not the idea of Bono seeing him naked. Although. . .

No. For fuck sake, just  _ no _ .

“. . .yes?” It came out meek, and Edge knew he was completely useless.

Predictably, Bono started to laugh; a low sound that started deep within his chest before spiraling. His shoulders were probably shaking, the  _ motherfucker _ . 

Edge wanted to kick him, and he wasn’t even sure why really, but the need was there, quiet and vicious. He almost did, almost gave in, but to kick Bono would involve moving, and there was another need pulsing through Edge, one that was becoming harder to ignore, harder by the second, and to be naked was one thing, but it was far too early for the real uncomfortable questions.

_ So, exactly how did Bono react when he realized you had an erection _ , the press would ask if he ever survived this fucking holiday without spontaneously combusting. 

_ Well, when I rolled over to present myself, I imagined four different ways Bono might react.  _ Shock _ , of course, was a big one, but there was also the very real chance of  _ awe _.  _

_ Right, and what were the other two ways? _

_ Complete ignorance to the whole situation, though I just didn’t see that happening. It is Bono we’re talking about here, after all. _

_ . . and the fourth? _

_ I’ll leave you to your conclusions. _

Burying his face further into the pillow, Edge let out a huff that could have been the start of a laugh, or something more disgruntled. He was, after all, forever the long-suffering best friend, and that was enough to deal with when he wasn’t sporting a hard-on over said best friend. But as he drew his knees up tighter, he could almost pretend it was all fine.

“Well then,” Bono started, his voice thick with amusement. “I didn’t realize it was going to be  _ that  _ sort of slumber party.”

“You know, I could still be asleep right now,” Edge grumbled.

“I know, I know. I am sorry, The Edge, I truly am, for disturbing your sleep.”

He didn’t sound sorry. He sounded like he had more to say, words that were left hanging when Edge refused to take the bait.  _ Refused _ , because Edge knew Bono. It might have been more teasing, or it might have been something else - a light smattering of contempt hidden under a knowing smile, all because of some fucking birds. 

For a moment, Edge considered what else it could be, and there might have been a knowing smile with the words that he imagined, a smile and a slide of the hand -  _ do I have your attention now, Edge? _ \- as Bono’s lips shifted hotly against the curve of Edge’s ear. Laughing at him, whispering against his skin -  _ I know what you’ve been thinking about  _ \- knowing him with curious fingers, until Edge just had to open his eyes to the dull morning light.

“Edge?”

If he shifted back a few inches, Edge knew he would be able to feel Bono’s breath against his neck. Brush his toes against the feet that Bono hated so much. Turn and show Bono just how naked he really was. 

If he only were to shift back a few inches.

Instead, he just said, “Go to sleep, Bono,” though his heart wasn’t exactly in it. No, it was too busy lingering approximately seventeen inches below, keeping a steady beat that made him tingle, made him throb, made him all too aware of the thoughts threatening to ruin him.

“Do you want me to strip off first to make you more comfortable, Edge? Because I will, you know I will.”

He would. Edge had seen him do it enough times - a few of those times in public, much to Paul’s horror - to believe it. One hundred percent. And on one hand, they were both covered by a sheet, so it wasn’t like anything would be exposed. But on the other hand, Bono getting naked right then and there would possibly be one of the worst things to happen to Edge in his entire goddamn life.

There had been too much naked Bono recently, too much for his peace of mind, and the mere thought of it was enough to -

“Alright, the sock is coming off then.”

Edge blinked. Whatever impure thought had been racing through his mind - and there had been a few, all dealing with where exactly he could put his cock to relieve some tension - was forgotten for a moment, as he asked, “You’re wearing socks? Bono, it’s a million degrees out there.” 

Bono let out a low whistle. “A million degrees before the sun has properly risen is quite the accomplishment.”

Right. “I mean-”

“Anyway, I said I was wearing  _ a  _ sock, not socks.”

Edge frowned. Then, when the cogs in his brain finished turning, he rolled back just far enough to comfortably crane his head over his shoulder and stare at Bono, wide eyed. “You - what?”

Wriggling his eyebrows, Bono was able to contain his laughter for maybe two seconds, and in those two seconds Edge almost believed there was a sock on Bono’s penis. Almost. 

“What is wrong in your brain?” he asked, rolling back to face the window. The curtains hung limply, and he wished he could say the same for himself, but there he was, naked and delicate, so to speak, with Bono at his side making penis jokes. It was some sort of hell, he was sure, but still, he couldn’t find it in himself to fight the tingle that ran along his skin, up and down until it settled low in his belly. 

“So many things, Edge. So many things.”

“I was being rhetorical.”

“So you don’t want to crack open my head and investigate?” Bono sounded almost disappointed. “I’m sure there would be some things that might interest you. A few thoughts here and there. Maybe some memories you might have let slip away?”

Edge paused. “Like what?”

“Oh, who even knows, really.”

It was like that, then. With a sigh, Edge shuffled closer toward the window. “Right. You know, I could send you back to your birds.”

Bono sounded amused as he asked, “Is that so?” but when silence was the only thing to respond, he seemed to take the hint. “I’ll be good, Edge.”

It seemed like an empty promise to Edge, but sure enough, Bono settled down after that. 

It came in pieces, a muffled giggle, a long-suffering sigh, a shift from side to side and so many tugs of the sheet that it almost seemed like a calculated move. One quick pull, too quick for the sheet to be grabbed, and Edge would be exposed. And maybe it was Bono being not entirely good, or maybe he was half asleep and unaware of his own actions, but he stayed silent through it all, and that in itself was a blessing. A blessing and a curse, Edge supposed, as with each tug he had to bite his lip and suppress the groan threatening to emerge, because fuck it all if he still wasn’t hard as hell and suffering. 

And of course the sheet just had to brush against his cock in that perfect little way; with each tug came a new fresh hell, and his mind decided, yes, Bono is the cause of it all, therefore Bono is the reason for it all, and Edge wasn’t entirely sure he was going to make it out of the bed alive.

He had to calm down. He had to concentrate, and Jesus that seemed impossible, but it was important, so desperately important that he breathe deep and focus, come up with some boring little visual that might just draw back the blood supply in his groin, so they could go and head for calmer waters. 

The thought brought along an image of little cartoon blood cells, and why, Edge just couldn’t understand - his mind was a mysterious place, and he often wondered if the rest of humanity had to put up with as much of their own nonsensical bullshit thoughts - but they were wearing little black boots and reading little newspapers, feet propped up on tables with a cup of tea in hand as they scanned the morning headlines.

He huffed out a laugh, couldn’t help it, and at his side Bono jerked slightly, mumbled something and shifted once before settling, his breath evening out quickly. It had all lasted maybe three seconds, a complete nothing situation, yet it was enough to draw Edge’s attention back squarely to the problems at hand: his cock, and Bono.

It was a problematic combination, and there was that fucking engagement ring burning a hole in his suitcase, in his fucking subconscious, but that was not something he could even begin to concentrate on, not when all his thoughts were either at his side or approximately seventeen inches below. 

And it wasn’t like he’d not had such thoughts before, not like he hadn’t indulged in such thoughts while indulging in himself - only a few hours before he’d done as much, and it hadn’t been cheating, it hadn’t - but he’d never quite imagined he would find himself in such a predicament with Bono at his side. Sleeping now, with deep steady breaths that were so comforting to listen to, so simple and easy that Edge wanted to roll him over and put a stop to it all; bring out new sounds, ones that were exciting and different and addictive and he’d see it in Bono’s face, hear it in his voice, _ more Edge, more, finally, ye- _

It was a dangerous predicament he had found himself in. But Edge knew, from many,  _ many  _ years of experience, that when Bono was breathing like that - those deep steady breaths that had helped lull Edge to sleep in a back of a van, in a freezing hotel room with no heater and the sound of slamming doors in the distance, on a plane over the ocean when he missed his family and felt guilty for leaving them again and again - there was almost nothing in the world that could wake him, as long as you didn’t touch him. Slamming doors, shattering glasses, nuclear war, it was so easy to sleep through when you were Bono. 

Which . . . was something to think about, actually. This was a man who had once slept through the majority of a Sonic Youth concert, curled up peacefully on the lighting board, though Edge suspected that had more to do with the red wine that had been consumed pre-concert. But there had been so many other times, without the aid of alcohol, where they’d laughed over Bono’s sleeping habits, stepped over him and made as much noise as they cared to, because he was so deeply into the Land of Nod. 

Before he could think about it, Edge was rolling over, with a frown on his face as he studied Bono. Bono, who could sleep through basically anything, but had been awoken, two mornings in a row, by a couple of chirping birds in the roof.

It seemed . . .peculiar. 

It seemed incredibly peculiar.

Edge just didn’t know anymore. But, as he took in Bono’s face, watched his body rise and fall with each deep and steady breath, still Edge couldn’t quite will away that feeling deep down, centred and aching and demanding some sort of attention. Bono’s face was slack, the lines on his face softened with sleep, and the mere sight of him so relaxed and exposed made Edge’s chest tighten just a little, and he wanted to stay there in that feeling, explore it some more because it was nice, it was pleasant and it was new, but his cock was winning over his heart and he knew he would never be able to concentrate, never be able to find calm until that burning feeling was taken care of. 

It was easy to fantasize about doing it, right there in the bed with Bono next to him, fast asleep and unaware. It was so easy when he knew that Bono wouldn’t wake, that Edge would be able to take his time, make it last, and keep his gaze fixed on the very person he had been thinking about, this time, last time, so many times before. 

It felt a little naughty, a lot dangerous, and Edge allowed himself the time to think it through, really consider how he would pull it off, so to speak, and if he were to indulge in such behaviour, right there in the bed with Bono at his side, blissfully unaware, which world would he be living in at the time - the real world, where under the moonlit sky Bono had leaned in close with the smallest of smiles, as if he were daring Edge to pull away. 

Or the other, that special little place that Edge could go to whenever he was alone in the dark and feeling desperate, picturing them on any surface they could find -  _ Edge, Edge, please  _ \- until it felt so real that his arm would tingle where he had imagined Bono gripping it, his skin would prickle from the memory, and when he could still feel the whisper of words against his ear was when he would blink back to reality and wonder how he had made it from the kitchen floor to his bedroom, safe and secure and full of shame.

He just didn’t know, and he allowed himself the luxury of both, jumping back and forth from fantasy and reality - and it was reality, it was - with his eyes shut as he danced on through, opening them only to keep a watchful, slightly wary eye as he canted his hips just a little, taking that little bit of pleasure from the soft and airy sheet that covered them both. And when Bono did shift, it was with a sleep-laden sigh and a twitch of his arm, searching, shifting until his hand found a home stretched out between the two of them, his fingers slightly curled.

Edge looked at that hand, considered it for far too long. 

But the sight brought forward a thought that he couldn’t ignore, and when he started to imagine it, truly considered reaching out and taking that hand, dragging it closer and closer until he could curl those fingers around his cock, he found it wasn’t a thought that he could stop. How far could he get until Bono woke up and wondered? Would Bono pull away? Let him continue? With his breath hot against Edge’s neck and his own hard-on pressed up against slick skin, whispering in Edge’s ear the filthiest of things as he took that hand and used it to take complete control of the situation -  _ what do you want, Edge? what do you want?  _ \- until Edge couldn’t take it anymore and he had to roll Bono over and take control; fast, hard, until Bono was crying out, gasping, begging for it, begging for more.

Pushing the sheet back as gently as he could manage at such a time, Edge slipped out of the bed in one ungraceful move, and dragged himself towards the hallway without so much as a single glance over his shoulder. He had to keep moving, had to leave that bed for now, leave the bedroom entirely, because if he didn’t he knew he would make an incredibly dangerous mistake. And it wasn’t easy, it wasn’t, and twice he had to stop himself from thinking,  _ but if I just . . .  _ because it wasn’t right. Not like that. 

Not like that.

But with the bathroom door locked behind him, Edge allowed himself to safely entertain such a fantasy and he was right back there in the bed and using Bono, using him for whatever he needed, and as always, Bono took it so prettily, so perfectly that when Edge came into his fist, with a muffled cry and always too quick, he couldn’t help but feel disappointed to leave it all behind.

In the mirror he looked a wreck, and now that the urge was gone his body felt the need to remind him that, yes, he had been sleeping, and he had been most enjoying that sleep, and surely he should consider jumping right on back into that bed and joining Bono in the Land of Nod. 

It seemed like an plan, though the idea of slipping back into that bed next to Bono gave him pause, but in the end he just decided fuck it. It was his bed after all. And he’d masturbated and gotten that all out the way, so he was fine, just fine, and could go back and sleep in the same bed as his best friend like the carefree and easygoing adult that he was. It was all just completely fine.

After using the toilet and drinking from the tap to soothe his dry throat, Edge padded back into his bedroom, where he found Bono still fast asleep. For a moment, he paused in the doorway and just looked, like the weirdo that he was, and he wasn’t entirely sure when he had become that person or if he even liked being that person, but when he looked at Bono there in the early morning light, he had a funny feeling that there was no turning back.

It should have been scary. And maybe it would be, in a few hours when he woke up properly and remembered it all, but for now Edge found himself feeling rather disconnected from the situation, as though he was floating high above, a different person entirely, and watching the whole thing unfold in the most spectacular fashion. 

He sighed, rubbed at his face,and then crossed the room and quietly climbed back into bed. Rolling to face Bono once more, he regarded the hand that had haunted him only minutes before, but for now it was just a hand, and Edge had to smile. 

The world always seemed a little bit strange in those early hours, when the sky was grey or a deep purple and ready to give away to that brilliant golden orange that Edge just never got tired of seeing. Often he felt giddy at such a time, punch drunk, topsy-turvy and prone to doing something  _ stupid _ , and it was during those early hours that he found himself remembering the most random of memories. 

Now, though, as he looked at Bono, so close and so still - and it was rare that he had such a chance - he found himself feeling almost . . .blessed. Which was a strange thing to think, and immediately he felt a bit silly for it, but he supposed it was just one of those mornings, where life seemed a little off and he just had to smile and enjoy it while it lasted. 

Anton had said to him one evening, years before after a mostly successful photoshoot where they had all been mostly well behaved and not at all bored or miserable, that Bono was his favourite to shoot, and don’t feel badly about that, Edge - and of course Edge hadn’t, because he’d known Bono was the favourite for quite some time, and understood completely - but as it was, Bono had a new face for every occasion. “He’s a different person from every angle,” Anton had said, another time, because oddly enough they often found themselves discussing Bono when he wasn’t around, “and sometimes, even now, he still manages to surprise me.”

Edge had just nodded and smiled, because he’d been on the other side of the camera himself, taking photos and being surprised when he developed a whole new Bono, one that he surely must have met along the way, perhaps. Perhaps. 

But it was true, and he had said to someone . . . he couldn’t remember who, but he knew that Bono had been in earshot, ready and waiting to hear his own name mentioned, when Edge had told that mystery person that Bono was, in fact, “a bunch of nice guys.” And Bono had laughed, from his position two tables over, and raised his glass and winked at Edge when he and the mystery person had glanced over, and they had left the party soon after, Edge remembered, whatever party it had been, in whatever town they had been stuck in, and he couldn’t even recall the year, but he remembered them walking along the beach, the sand cool against his bare feet, and Bono had pointed toward the starry sky and said, “Isn’t that something, Edge. Like a painting, just for us.”

Edge had laughed, and when Bono had glanced over with that little smile that made him look ten years younger, Edge had pushed him onto his arse in the water, one of those little urges that always made him wonder why afterward, but he’d laughed all the harder and Bono had joined in, reaching out a hand and dragging Edge down into the shore with him. 

“You motherfucker,” Edge had gasped, and Bono had laughed so hard he became silent, his shoulders shaking and both hands covering his face as the waves had gently passed on through them.

It was just one of those memories, and Edge wasn’t sure where it had come from, really. He wasn’t entirely sure what he had been thinking before, even, and he was feeling a little dopey, a little slow, but he wasn’t sure he would be able to sleep. Not yet. Because as he lay there, with Bono so close, so calm and so still, Edge found himself trying to remember the last time he’d been able to look at Bono in such a way. So close. So still. Without glancing away, with that little self-conscious smile on his face that was basically asking  _ what the fuck you looking at and why exactly, huh?  _

Though of  _ course  _ it was fine when Bono was the one doing the looking, like he was looking straight on through into Edge’s soul, trying to figure it all out because there had to be a reason for The Edge, there just had to, and Edge knew it drove Bono crazy sometimes. “What are you thinking there, Edge?” Bono would ask from time to time when he just couldn’t figure it out, god help him, and there was always a quizzical little smile on his face like it was just a casual, every day question he was asking.

“Oh, this and that,” Edge would answer absently, only because he knew it threw Bono for a loop. “Nothing, really,” he would sometimes add, though there was always something, and it was a chore not to laugh when Bono’s frown deepened. 

But Bono was so close, so calm, so unaware, and so not looking away with any sort of smile, and Edge thought it was wise to enjoy it while he could. In a friendship sort of way, not in a commit this to memory to fantasize about later sort of way, and if he thought that enough then maybe it would come true. 

Purely friendship, because it was nice to know his best friend better, of course it was, and maybe if he studied hard enough he would be able to paint Bono from memory - though, Christ, he was sure he already could, and he was such an idiot - and maybe he would be able to keep his thoughts nice and soft. Like they were currently, soft and easy, as he took in the curve of Bono’s lips - he knew those lips - and the line of his jaw - he had felt that stubble - and the way all the complexities of life seemed to just slip away when Bono was asleep. 

_when you're asleep. . . you just look different, in a way that I cannot quite explain_

To think, Bono had been inspired to draw Edge that morning five years before, when such a face greeted him in the reflection of a mirror each and every day.

Without giving it a second thought, Edge reached out a hand to brush a lock of hair from Bono’s temple, feeling a little self conscious about such an action, and when Bono stirred he figured he was busted. He knew the smart thing to do would be to draw his hand back before he could get properly caught, but in the past week it seemed Edge had forgotten all about being clever. 

He froze, with his hand a mere inch from Bono’s face, apprehensive and hopeful all at once, and when Bono snuffled Edge figured that was that, he was busted, done, caught red handed and it was all over, because what sort of person just casually brushed away errant hair from their best friends forehead without it meaning something? 

Except for Bono who, as Edge had come to realize over the years, did not quite understand the term personal space, and touched whoever wherever and whenever he felt like it, within reason, because it was normal to him, it was fine, and Edge’s hand was still floating in the air like it fucking belonged there. Even as Bono settled,  _ after  _ he settled - and he was asleep still, Edge was sure of it - Edge’s hand was still there. Floating. 

With a muted sigh, Edge brought his hand back down, resisted the urge to reach out and touch once more, and finally settled for just casual watching. Because it wasn’t weird, not at all. It was all just perfectly fine, and besides, when else would he get such an opportunity?

He took in every twitch, every shift, every turn of Bono’s face, and found himself wondering if those were the sort of things Bono saw in him, those times when the little hairs on the back of Edge’s neck would rise, and he would know, even before he glanced up, that there was that gaze on him, unwavering and warm, or fickle and something that wasn’t quite cold, wasn’t quite warm, but  _ something _ ; something that Edge had never quite been able to put his finger on. 

But now, he was starting to wonder.

There had been one evening, maybe ten years before, late at night in a pub where no one could give a shit, where they could play pool and take control of the jukebox and remember what life had been like, in the before. 

He could see Bono with his hair halfway down his back, unwashed and untamed, looking every bit like the rockstar he was trying to slink away from, maybe not for eternity, but just long enough. And slink he had, away from the pool table and out of Edge’s line of sight, and Edge hadn’t quite cared enough to ask; he’d just wanted to make his shot.

_ Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention for a moment - _

_ No one cares, Bono. _

_ \- if you look this way, you will find the one, the only, the  _ majestic  _ Edge, all the way from Dublin, Ireland, preparing to sink a blackball that has bested him three times over already tonight. . . a little quiet, if you will, please. . . please, sir. Oh no, darling,  _ you _ , you can talk as much as you want, I would never think - and he’s  _ done  _ it, ladies and gentlemen, The Edge has finally won a single game of fucking pool! Sweet lord in heaven, The Edge, how do you feel? _

_ Like I want to punch you, actually. _

The jukebox had been blaring the entire night, an erratic variety of songs that could only ever be selected by those three sheets to the wind, and Edge had tuned it all out until  _ Sound and Vision _ had started to play. 

Even before he’d turned around, he had known.

They had played it together one night early on, laughing and shouting with a bottle of vodka between them, a bottle he’d barely been old enough to legally buy. Stuck in a hotel room in a city they didn’t know, just the two of them against the world.

At the time that’s what it had felt like anyway, and he remembered the look on Bono’s face, the laugh, the way that he’d gotten half of the few words the song actually had completely wrong but still made it work, and since then, whenever Edge heard the song, he couldn’t help but think back and smile.

“Bowie could have written this song about you, Edge,” Bono had said that night in the hotel room, breathless, giddy, just the two of them against the world. “He might have.”

In that pub, maybe ten years before, he’d been slow to turn and not sure why, but there had been that feeling, that prickling sensation at the back of his neck, his heart picking up the pace even as he swallowed it. 

Bono had been almost where Edge had figured he would; not by the jukebox but in front of it, leaning back against it like he belonged there, like he had every right, head tilted to the side and a barely there half smile on his face that Edge had seen any number of times before. 

But it was the look in his eyes that had given Edge pause, that had kept him from turning back, that had caused ripples even before he’d truly known it was there. It was a look that Edge had only ever seen again once, so dark against the moonlight, so close that he’d not been able to stop himself.

Halfway across the pub, it had been just as dark, just as heated, and when Bono had finally glanced away, Edge hadn’t quite known what to think.

He had watched Bono walk away, put his pool cue down and just stood there, listening to the jukebox play out the rest of the song. His song, Bono had called it once, drunk on vodka in a hotel room where the paint was peeling from the walls and Edge had started the night homesick and ended it with a smile on his face, listening to Bono sing all the wrong lyrics, knowing that correcting him would not make a lick of difference. His song, with the catchy riff and minimal lyrics, none that really fit him, except maybe they did, maybe . . .

His song.

In the hotel room, Edge had just laughed. Figured it was just Bono being Bono, drunk off his arse and making sweeping statements that made perfect sense only in his funny little brain. 

But when Bono had looked at him in such a way, that night in the pub, Edge had found himself, for one fleeting moment, at a point where he could almost believe it. 

His song. 

He played it sometimes, when he was alone, stuck on a song and in need of some inner peace. Sometimes he sang along, other times he was just content to close his eyes and listen to the melody that he himself was creating - his song - and journey back to that night in the hotel room, that night early on when life had seemed hard sometimes but it really never was. 

It had been a simpler time, and he missed those sorts of nights sometimes, missed them terribly in fact, and there in the bed he found himself closing his eyes finally, cutting himself off from what was in front of him to let the melody play through his mind like it belonged there. And sometimes it did. Sometimes, he just didn’t know, but he felt limp and free, skirting on the outskirts of consciousness as the song stopped and started in his mind, until finally he lost his place entirely and thought that it was fine, just fine to forget, fine to even think such a thing.

And there, right there, he saw her, and she was dancing. Twirling through the air with her dark eyes and that knowing smile on her face. 

Edge reached out a hand. He couldn’t let her go, not this time, no, he had to, he  _ had  _ to, and she was so close that he almost could - 

She slipped away.

Dancing from across the room, with her hips swaying and her arms above her head, she was crying; tears streaking her cheeks even as she continued to smile his way. He found himself asking her why, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know, and she just shook her head and said, “What are you talking about? I’m happy.”

It was a lie, but Edge had to believe her. And when she held out a perfect hand and said, “Follow me,” he couldn’t resist. He followed her, through a deep blue door that he knew too well, and down the path, through the trees until they came to the lake, moss green and shining bright beneath the moonlight. “In you go,” she said, and Edge wasn’t so sure. “The water is fine, you’re going to love it.” Still she was crying, and Edge took one step back, and then another, keeping his gaze fixed on her as she began to sing, “Blue, blue, electric blue. . .” and with a wink, she turned towards the water and went to step in. 

“No,” Edge said. “Don’t.”

Laughing, she looked over her shoulder. “The water is fine,” she said again, and then she was gone, though he could still hear a voice, maybe not her voice, maybe not anyone, and maybe he wasn’t even there, but it was faint, troubled, singing, “Blue, blue, electric blue . . .”

Slowly, he became aware, though couldn’t stand to open his eyes until he was good and ready, and there was a niggling thought that made him wonder if he was supposed to feel so calm and warm and soft, but he pushed past it. 

Then, all at once, he became truly aware, and the reality of life hit him with the force of a sledgehammer. God, he could sleep for another day, he was sure, and he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that while he had been sleeping someone had used his head as a battering ram, for how  _ wrong  _ his neck was currently feeling. And then there was that other thing; the warm skin beneath his palm that he knew didn’t belong to him, the steady breathing mere inches in front of his face, and the knowledge of exactly who he was currently sharing a bed with. 

They were too close, and Edge knew he was in trouble even before he opened his eyes.

Still, he opened them anyway, and found a rather amused blue gaze staring back at him. 

Bono’s lip quirked. “Hello, Clarice.”   
  



	10. Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Look, I'm posting without having months at a time pass between updates!! This is very exciting for me, tbh, and I'm glad to bring you this rather long chapter that was meant to be, like, a quarter of its length. At this rate, Nexus is going to be longer than The Scientist, which oh boy. But I hope you all are still enjoying it, and I love you for continuing to read Edge's lengthy descent into madness xxx

They had gone to see _The Silence of the Lambs_ together, as was often the case with films that contained blood and violence and the like, since Ali was most _definitely_ not a fan of such generally unpleasant things. And early on when they were all close friends but still not quite family she had declined any invitation to a horrifically gory evening at the cinema with an upbeat, “Oh no, but thank you for the offer and you two have fun together!” because it was always the two of them, always in the back of the cinema with Bono watching in rapt delight and horror while Edge was somewhere in between a few emotions entirely, and there had been a few times when he’d wished he had just stayed home like Ali.

She was a smart one, and later when they had all stopped pretending to be someone they weren’t, Ali had started turning down movie dates with a laugh and a raised eyebrow that was entirely too familiar, saying, “Don’t play dumb, Edge. But make sure he gets home sometime this evening, if you can. . . if you can.”

He could recall, that night that the two of them had seen _The Silence of the Lambs_ , that he’d not quite managed to get Bono home sometime that evening - though he couldn’t quite remember what time the next day they’d made the effort to return to their respective beds, if they had even made it the next day, and Edge had done his best to forget those nights spent in an empty house, a lifetime away from being surrounded by his family - but instead they’d gone out to dinner afterward and, as was often the case, the night had spiraled from there.

Bono had been appropriately excited post-movie, demanding a bottle of Chianti from the hapless waiter, and then another, and there had been that voice, that uncanny Hannibal Lecter impression that he pulled off beautifully, that weirded Edge out entirely and caught him between a few other emotions that he hadn’t quite understood at the time. Throughout the night, as much as Edge could recall anyway - and here and there later on when it was least expected - Bono had pulled it out, blank faced and unblinking as he’d said, “How do we begin to covet, Edge? Do we seek out things that we want, even after enjoying such a huge meal? Does that chocolate cake feel your eyes moving over its body? Make the effort to answer me, Edge.”

And whenever it came out, Edge would just laugh, rub his neck, and try and look anywhere but Bono’s blank and unblinking gaze, because he was never quite sure how to respond. Never quite knew what to think.

He wanted to rub his neck now, rub at it until it stopped feeling so stiff and wrong, but he just couldn’t bring himself to move.

Bono’s gaze wasn’t blank this time, it was warm and close, so close that Edge was two seconds away from having palpitations he was sure, but the voice, that fucking uncanny impression, had been in full swing. Edge found himself caught somewhere between a few emotions entirely, but, as usual, he had no idea how to respond. What to think. Where to look, and there was nowhere else that he could think of but straight ahead, where Bono was smiling at him now, and Edge’s palm was still resting on Bono’s neck like it belonged there, and maybe it did, he didn’t know anymore, but the palpitations had arrived and he was still completely and utterly fucking _naked_.

They were so close, too close, breathing each other’s air with breath less than perfect, and there was a little voice in the back of his mind - nearly drowned out by the shrieking alarm bells that were telling him to _maintain eye contact and back away sloooowly so as not to startle the Bono, but do it quickly because you cannot stay in this bed a second longer_ unless _you want to face the consequences, and there will be consequences, you idiot_ \- telling him that it was fine, it was better than fine, it was everything, and if it was at all possible to stay in that bed together for the foreseeable future then they should do that and see what develops.

Both plans seemed enticing in their own special ways, and Edge didn’t know what to think.

So he didn’t. For a few seconds his brain turned to mush, and it was kind of nice, actually.

When Bono again smiled, soft and gentle, Edge did the same; figured he should make some sort of effort because it had to have been at least a minute since Bono had spoken, and there he was, silent as the moon, pressed up close and staring like he’d forgotten how to be a human being.

And maybe he had, because despite being well aware of where his hand was - and when he focused he could feel Bono’s carotid artery keeping a steady beat, sense when Bono was about to swallow, and start to imagine the possibilities when Bono drew his lips in to wet them, then parted them just so, almost delicately, for a muted little sigh to escape - still Edge was making no move to escape.

If anything, he wanted to move forward, approximately five inches forward, until their noses bumped and Bono’s pulse quickened beneath his palm, faster until Edge just had to drag his hand downwards, pull Bono closer still and lose himself completely.

It was a dangerous thought to be having when they were so close, and perhaps it was best that Edge return to his mental state of mush, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything but smile, blink slowly, and watch as Bono’s hand came out from under the sheet. For a moment it lingered in the space between them, indecisive, before drawing back to join Edge’s misplaced hand. His fingers danced around, brushing against his prickly jaw, and then they were curling against Edge’s, warm and clammy as they began to gently stroke.

It was only for a split second, but with Edge so close, unblinking and focused, he was easily able to catch Bono’s expression change - and it had all been in the eyes, as it often was with Bono; fleeting, open and so raw that even when it was gone Edge felt it for hours - but then Bono was smiling again, his fingers closing around Edge’s as he asked, “Did you sleep well?”

Edge swallowed, his mouth went drier still, and he wasn’t quite sure he had it in him to offer an appropriate response. Or any response, really. Any vocal one anyway, because he could easily imagine another way he could respond, and it wouldn’t be an answer to Bono’s question, no, but it still be an answer, and God, he wanted to. He wanted to, badly, and when the grip around his fingers tightened, Edge could have sworn that Bono knew exactly what he was thinking.

And it made him wonder, it truly did, but then he heard that voice - not Bono this time, and that was a change, but Ali, deadpan and rolling her eyes, saying, “Don’t play dumb, Edge.” He wasn’t quite sure where it had came from, but once it was there, it was all he could hear, even with Bono looking at him in such a way. It was a distraction, the voice and what was in front of him, a confusing mismatch of worlds, and though Edge’s throat was dry, he still managed to stutter out a sad little, “Yeah, I guess.”

It was a complete lie, they both knew it, but when Bono’s smile grew wider Edge found himself wanting to say it again. And again and again, just to keep that smile going.

He was fucked. Royally and utterly, even with Ali’s voice in his head and her sweet face on his mind, and that fucking engagement ring in his suitcase, burning a hole and reminding him each and every waking moment that he was a bastard, and he was _fucked_. Because Bono smiling at him - so close as they breathed the same air, as their fingers curled, as the pulse against his palm quickened - was practically enough to ruin him.

This wasn’t normal for best friends. This wasn’t even normal for _them_.

With the smile came the gaze, flickering back and forth across Edge’s face as if Bono was trying to piece it all together, make it work and create something out of nothing, something beautiful that could stun a crowd to silence and make them scream all the louder afterward. It was startling, being on the receiving end of a look he knew so well. _Too_ well.

It was often overwhelming how much he knew about Bono, and sometimes he could tell by how Bono drew in a breath where the conversation was going, know exactly where to take a song all from the raise of a hand, or even the slightest change of expression.

Overwhelming. It was overwhelming, his breath catching in his chest and causing him to shudder, and when Bono’s smile turned, to something different, something dangerous, Edge understood him implicitly. And he knew, he just _knew_ , that if he were to shift forward -

Quickly, he sat up, hand slipping from Bono’s grasp as he went, and it was disappointment tinged with relief that he felt as his heart kept a steady, if somewhat frantic, beat in his chest. He wasn’t sure why he’d pulled away exactly, only that he had, and when he breathed in deeply and closed his eyes briefly, he could see her clearly in his mind, pregnant and smiling.

“Hey,” Bono said, a gentle hand falling against Edge’s covered thigh. He sounded uncertain,  and Edge couldn’t bring himself to look back and see that expression. “You alright?”

“Of course.” Chuckling a little, he rubbed at his neck, rubbed hard until it felt a little bit more normal, until he could bring himself to glance back. Bono was frowning, his gaze shifting back and forth again, searching for _something_ , and when Edge smiled it wasn’t returned. “We better get moving if we want to make the market, though.”

It sounded convincing enough, Edge supposed, though he’d forgotten to set an alarm and who knew, maybe they’d slept through the market. Maybe he had an excuse to lay back down and not miss the rest of the world for a few more days, at least, until reality came knocking at the door. He just had so many options sometimes, but very few outcomes and so many consequences, and the thought was so overwhelming that he found himself laughing, rubbing at his neck again as he glanced toward the window.

“Sure,” Bono said when Edge fell silent. “We wouldn’t want to miss that.”

Edge nodded, adding, “We’re almost out of milk,” as if it was an excuse - for everything - though, and he wasn’t entirely sure why, the words came out sounding almost defensive. _We’re almost out of milk so I can’t stay here and make out with you. And it’s not that I don’t want to kiss you, though I fucking shouldn’t really, it’s just that we’re almost out of milk. It is_ too _a good excuse, and how dare you accuse me of making shit up, we_ are _almost out of milk and that is fucking important._

“Sure,” Bono said again. “I hear milk is important, after all. Makes you grow up big and strong.”

“Mmm.”

“Mmhmm.”

Silence descended upon them, and Edge found himself again considering the window, estimating what sort of grievous bodily harm he might do to himself if he were to leap across the room and escape, feet first, to land on the grass below. He was pretty confident that he would be able to make the jump without killing himself, though even that would be a welcome way out of the situation he had found himself in.

It was going to be a great day.

“I’m going to have a shower,” Bono announced, and Edge was almost sure that he’d never been so happy to hear Bono say those words. Though he could remember a few mornings after an all night bender where personal hygiene had clearly not been at the top of anyone’s list . . .

“Okay, good. Great, and I’ll make coffee. And . . . breakfast.”

“Cereal would be nice.”

“Okay.”

“Though I heard through the grapevine that we might be low on milk, so,” Bono let out a short laugh, “good luck with that one, _mate_.”

The sheets rustled as they were pushed back, and Edge watched as Bono padded from the room, waiting until he heard the bathroom door close to flop back onto the bed.

For a moment he just stared at the slanted roof, breathing deep enough that he could almost convince himself, but it was no use. Letting out an agonized groan, he rolled onto his stomach, buried his face deep into the pillow, and wailed like an angsty teenager - and he knew exactly what that sounded like from experience.

It was going to be a good day. It was going to be a great day, if he didn’t suffocate himself with a pillow first. Or any other soft thing that he might come across during the day, and Bono was certainly soft. . . in places. Around the midsection sometimes, depending on his schedule and commitment and how loud Paul was getting about the whole thing. And then there were his hands, gentle and careful unless you were on the wrong side of him and asking for it, though Edge had seen the callouses well enough to know they were there, felt them against his own in so many occasions but never against his cheek - no, he remembered clearly, how could he forget?

“Fuck sake,” Edge grumbled to himself, because _really_ . He needed to stop, before he really did try and do himself in with a pillow. Though - and he was determined to move on, at least for long enough to get out of bed, he _was_ \- he couldn’t help but stop and ponder all the different places where Bono wasn’t soft, not in the least. It was an interesting little path to journey down, though when his thoughts started to wander south he dragged them back up to more innocent waters, like the sharp jawline that Bono often felt the need to cover with artful stubble, or the way his eyes went hard, a deep blue that always reminded Edge of the sea, when he wasn’t getting his way.

It was a safer train of thought, certainly, though soon enough his thoughts began to drift, and it was then that Edge all but forced himself out of bed, rubbing at his neck and muttering to himself as he went - more sounds than words, and he was turning into Bono. As if his life wasn’t hard enough.

The shower was still going as he crept past the bathroom, the sound filling Edge with a strange, twisted sensation that he just couldn’t understand. He pushed past it, turned toward the stairs, put one foot on the first step and found himself lingering there, gaze cast toward Bono’s open bedroom door. The sight filled him with an urge, though he wasn’t sure why, or what he even thought that he would find in there. Something scandalous, like a very detailed diary entailing all of Bono’s homoerotic thoughts and notions, perhaps, or a signed declaration of his intentions, or even just page after page of _Mrs. Bono the Edge_ scrawled in writing that was basically unintelligible.

Though _Mrs_. made no sense, unless Bono’s mind was working in its own special way, and there was a chance of that - always - Edge knew, even as he shook his head and laughed to himself, one foot still on the first step as he considered just how ridiculous his own mind was sometimes. Always. Usually always these days, and what a pair they made.

Ignoring the urge that was still there, and pretending as though he wasn’t slowly losing his marbles, Edge made his way down the stairs as quickly as he could force himself to. And it was strange, but once both feet had left the stairs, he found himself feeling a bit clearer, a bit calmer - though in mind only, because as soon as clarity reared its ugly head, Edge found himself with enough brain power to remember that he was falling apart elsewhere.

Maybe falling apart was a strong term to use, but Edge couldn’t find it in himself to give a damn. He could have used a few more hours in bed, though that was usually the case with him anyway, and a quick glance at the clock told him he had actually had longer than he figured, and that the market was doable, which left Edge not entirely sure how to feel. He decided to go for positive, despite not knowing exactly how Bono was going to be today, or how he himself was going to be, or if he was going to behave or become . . . whatever it was that he was already half seeing in the mirror, as well as his mixed up mind.

No, he was going to be positive, despite wondering if Bono had actually curled up on Edge’s neck while they had both been sleeping, and it almost made sense, in his mixed up mind, because there were similarities between Bono and cats, and Christ, his neck was feeling just _wrong_. Everything was feeling a little wrong, and for a moment Edge found himself feeling a little disassociated, staring at the clock so intensely that he was almost sure he would be able to see past the wall and straight on through to the lake.

He was going to be positive, as soon as he had some coffee.

Walking into the kitchen, his gaze landed on the sink immediately, and the sight left him feeling more than a little despair. Which was a bit silly, he knew, since it was only a few dishes, even if they had been covered with sauce and cheese and left to soak in water that was now stone cold and grimy, with little bits of cheese floating to the surface. “Fucking hell . . .”

The night before, he had clearly made a crucial mistake in leaving such a problem for later, and Edge, who had never met a problem he couldn’t procrastinate on, decided to leave the problem for later.

Though he did empty the water and run the tap for a few seconds, rinsing off the worst of it before filling the sink once more. It felt like the wisest choice to make, and made him feel like he was being productive, as well as one step closer to pouring himself a nice strong cup of black coffee. Which was basically all he needed in life at that particular moment, though that little voice in the back of his head had another idea of what exactly he needed, reminding him that any minute now, that very idea was going to walk down those stairs, smelling fresh and clean; in a frame of mind that Edge couldn’t even begin to predict.

It was going to be a good day. He just had to keep telling himself that.

There really wasn’t enough milk for cereal - _so good luck with that one,_ mate - so Edge considered their options as he prepared two mugs of strong black coffee, taking a thoughtful and somewhat orgasmic sip from one as he stared into the pantry and tried to make sense of what he was seeing, but with the coffee quickly starting to do its magic, Edge found himself stuck on the way Bono had all but spat out that word, _mate_ , letting it roll through his mind until it stopped sounding like a word at all. Mate. _Mate_. Christ, it was all so difficult.

He decided on porridge.

Porridge he could handle. Hot water and some oats on the stove top, it was easy as sin, really.

When Bono finally came downstairs Edge wasn’t quite prepared for it, and he wasn’t entirely sure how to act - his best friend, and he was feeling unsure - so he didn’t react at all, just kept stirring the porridge that was looking far too gluggy for its own good and not in the least bit appetizing. How he had managed to fuck up porridge, Edge had no idea. He just hoped it tasted better than it looked.

Like was often the case, Bono seemed to just materialize at his side, too close for his own good and smelling like spring, with a suspiciously bright smile on his face as he peered over Edge’s shoulder. “Mmm, smells good,” he said, and Edge had to agree, though it wasn’t the porridge he was thinking about. “Oh, is this for me? Jesus, I’ve been hanging out for this, Edge, I tell you I slept like a rock this morning, once I was able to sleep, you know, and,” he paused to take a sip from his mug, “oh, that’s good, thank you, God, I needed this, I truly needed - wait. Edge, I’m by no means a porridge connoisseur, but is it supposed to look like that?”

Slowly, Edge turned to face him, feeling a little bewildered. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting exactly, but it sure as hell hadn’t been the Energizer Bono. Not today, anyway, especially not before the caffeine kicked in - and kick in it often did, so much so that Larry had once calmly set down his sticks, gotten up from his chair and walked over to take the mug from Bono’s hand mid-sip, offering up a simple, “No,” when Bono protested.

Clearly not needing a response to his question, Bono continued on, “I swear your mattress is, like, twenty five percent more comfortable than mine, Edge, I may have to take it over, you know, claim it as my own. Then no one would have to deal with those birds now, would they?”

“. . .uh-”

“That ladder is still against the wall, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but-”

“Well, maybe I should go up there. Check it out, see if I can see anything, huh?”

Turning off the heat, Edge allowed himself a precious few seconds to consider his response, and still came up empty handed.

Bono was looking at him expectantly, looking as casual as anything in a way that Edge didn’t quite buy. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to look Bono dead in the eye, not yet anyway, to see what was really going on, so for now he supposed it was just a whatever situation they were stuck in. Lifting the saucepan from the stove top, he said, “You don’t like heights,” as he began to scrape out a couple of bowls from the gluggy mess. “And Paul said you’re not allowed to climb things anymore, remember?”

“That was years ago he said that.”

“Still applies, B.” The words came out cool, calm and casual, like Edge was exactly that, and maybe he could do it. Maybe they both could pretend, because apparently that’s what Bono had decided they were going to do, and it was always him that got to decide these things, though in this case, Edge wasn’t entirely sore about that fact; not sore at all, but more than a little confused. And with how things were going, those two whole minutes they had managed to stand there without giving each other _looks_ , maybe it _would_ be a good day. Maybe.

“Yeah, but-”

“But no. Here, eat this.” Shoving a steaming bowl of goo Bono’s way, Edge picked up his own bowl as well as his mug and started towards the dining table, saying, “Look, we’ll deal with it after we get back from the market, okay? Or rather, I’ll deal with it. Me, not you."

“Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be, is it?” Bono said as he set his bowl down, with a smile on his face that said so many things, but certainly did not say he was mad about being put in his place. And wasn’t that just something. “You’re just gonna make me relinquish control like that-”

“Can’t relinquish what you never had now, can you,” said Edge as they both sat down, causing Bono to swiftly glance up with both eyebrows raised.

“. . . _Well_. And I suppose I’m meant to be, what, grateful in this scenario?”

Edge shrugged, though when he looked up and caught Bono’s eye, it made that feeling of _fine_ he’d been masquerading behind dart back a little. “You can be whatever you want, makes no difference to me,” he said despite himself, but it was a strange little state of mind he found himself in; relief mixed with calm mixed with the slightest tinge of despair, and through it all there was that little voice shouting _fuck you_. Because if Bono could sit there pretending, acting like nothing was wrong, like everything was normal with that look in his eye, shielded but there, then Edge could do the same, but better, being the king of denial that he was.

“Though if ‘you’re taking over my bed’ and ‘no one is having to deal with those birds’,” he added, utilizing air quotes like he was a cool, calm and collected person, though he certainly didn’t sound like it, “then why even bother, hmm?”

Bono didn’t look entirely impressed, and Edge could relate, because he wasn’t entirely impressed with himself either. In fact, he actually had no idea why he’d even said such a thing - it certainly felt as if he’d thrown gasoline on the fire that was quietly raging in the corner, the very same fire that they were both calmly pretending was actually just a lamp or something equally innocuous - and for a moment, Edge kind of wanted to set himself on fire, just a little.

With a delayed chuckle that landed a little awkward, Bono said, “Okay, calm down, Dr. Evil,” and for a moment it looked as if he had more to say on the matter, but then he just shook his head and reached for his spoon. “By the way, this looks delicious, Edge, completely appetizing.”

Edge snorted. “Fuckin’ liar.”

“Yeah, well.” Shrugging, Bono gave him a warm smile. “If I don’t keep on lying about it, then you may very well stop making me food, and we can’t have that, can we?”

“Well . . .”

“Let me put that a different way: I don’t think either of us want me in there ‘making an effort’,” he said, and the way he pulled out the air quotes almost felt like a dig.  

“No, I think your capabilities are better suited to things that cannot spontaneously catch on fire,” Edge agreed, adding, after a calculated pause, “Though you do make a rockin’ sandwich, I have to admit.”

Bono smirked. “You’re such a little charmer, aren’t you.” Shaking his head, he dug his spoon in. “Motherfucker.”

Somehow, he almost managed to make that word sound like a compliment.

After finishing with breakfast, Edge left Bono to deal with the mess - though his expectations were low regarding how well Bono might carry out the clean-up duties - and made his way upstairs with a half-smile on his face and a positive attitude on life, both which crumbled completely the moment his feet left the stairs. “Jesus,” he muttered to himself as he closed the bathroom door. In the mirror he looked drawn, a sorry sight indeed, though clearly there was something there that kept Bono glancing back. “Jesus. What are you doing?”

He ran the shower as hot as he could stand, red hot against his skin and soothing against his tight back and tighter neck, though tight wasn’t really the word for it. More like the result of his head being screwed back on wrong, and that would explain so much, actually, and the thought made Edge smile, then laugh, then squeeze his eyes tightly shut as he rested his forehead against the tile - gently, though the urge to bang his head a few times and try and knock some sense back into his brain was strong, and rising by the second.

They had been so close, too close, and now, with his mind working on overtime and Bono a safe distance away, Edge found himself wondering, about a great many number of things. It left him with a feeling that was not new, not in the least, but it had never been quite this strong, not even five years before when he’d first locked himself away and wondered. It was excitement, doubt, curiosity, and sheer terror all mixed into one, and for a moment Edge found himself weak at the knees, not knowing how he would make it back downstairs and face Bono without pulling him closer or pushing him far, far away.

“I just wanted to try that,” Bono had said five years before, and for the most part, it had amounted to nothing. Back then, Edge had almost been glad, as curious as he might have been, because it had been something new, something a little scary and not at all something he understood. Life had been busy and full, and with her, with Morleigh, fresh and exciting. Now, it was still nearly all of those things, but he’d had time to ponder, time to imagine - in the dark of the night, shameful and dirty - and it wasn’t as if he understood it now, because he didn’t, God knows he probably never would, but he at least had a sense, a feeling of what was happening. Somewhat. Maybe.

He was almost sure. And it was a little terrifying, and hidden safely behind a locked door it felt like they had almost committed a terrible crime, but Edge just didn’t know anymore. How their lives would go, how even the day would go, if they would be able to look at one another and act as if it wasn’t something - because they were in this together, Edge was sure of it now, could no longer deny it with the way Bono had looked at him that morning, and the way it had made him feel - because it was one thing to pretend over breakfast, but it was another thing entirely to continue on for . . .

He didn’t even know if they could. He just didn’t know. But the water was hot and soothing, drawing away some of the tension he felt, in mind, body and spirit, and at least that was something. Sighing, he rubbed at his neck until he felt a bit more human, saying, in a low voice, “I can do this,” again and again until he could almost believe it.

Because he could. He could.

He had to.

Stepping out of the shower, Edge found himself heading straight for the mirror without a towel, dripping water as he went. His reflection showed pale skin mottled pink, cheeks blushing red, and he stayed there till the colours began to fade, breathing deep and then just breathing, calm and even until he was certain that he could face the world once more. Face Bono even. Spend the day with him, both among society and hidden away from it all, just the two of them against the world.

He could pretend. He had to. And there, in front of the mirror, Edge even found it in himself to smile.

After drying himself Edge wrapped the towel around his waist, unlocked the door, and made his way toward his bedroom, as light footed as he could remember being late on Christmas Eve, sneaking around the house with presents marked _Santa_ , back when the girls still believed. Because he might have found it in himself to smile, he might even have convinced himself that he could do it - he could, he _could_ \- but still, Edge wasn’t entirely sure he was ready to face Bono, especially when he was clad only in a towel. Something that could be easily removed, and it wasn’t that he didn’t trust Bono, it was just . . .

There was a chance he didn’t even trust himself.

It was fine. It would all be fine, he knew it, and as he skulked into his room the suitcase on the ground was the first thing that caught his eye. Inside, there was an engagement ring, reminding him that he really had to call Morleigh, among other thoughts. It had been days since they had talked, and maybe that was part of the problem, maybe -

“Oh good,” Bono said from the doorway, managing to materialize at the very moment Edge lost his towel. “You’re out of the shower, then.”

“Yes,” Edge said, because he was calm, no matter how robotic that one word had sounded, or how naked he had once again found himself in front of Bono. Always fucking naked, it seemed, and the thought made him feel a bit. . . giddy, though that feeling certainly wasn’t outwardly apparent. “I’m about to get dressed now.” Giddy, and more than a little stupid.

“And I’m incredibly proud of you,” Bono assured, a smile on his face as he considered what was in front of him. “But don’t be long now, you know how daddy hates waiting.” With that said, Bono slunk away, leaving Edge feeling more than a little shell-shocked.

“. . . _what_?”

The moment had passed by the time Edge managed to pull himself together enough to get dressed and sorted for the day, and he left his bedroom once more almost feeling positive about the day, in a playful sort of way that made him want to burst, want to shout and certainly want to ignore the fact that he was back teetering on the edge of it all crashing down. Though it wasn’t denial, not in the least, it was just . . . something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, like he’d had too much sugar or maybe snorted something he shouldn’t have, but whatever it was, he found it lurching in his chest and pulling at his cheeks, and it was ridiculous to think that he’d taken such a turn in the shower, ridiculous to believe that they couldn’t do this - because they’d done it before, for five years or maybe more, who even knew anymore, and if Bono could joke and pretend and ignore it all when the sun was still shining, then fuck it, so could Edge, even if it was for the rest of their lives.

“Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt,” Dik liked to say when he thought he was being funny, but today Edge found it sound advice. Though it wasn’t denial, it was just something else, and as he again approached the bathroom mirror, Edge found himself pondering exactly what the fuck was wrong with him, because even though his reflection looked somewhat fine, inside he felt like he was trembling.

It was strange, and he knew it was strange, though he couldn’t quite bring himself to wonder why. Maybe the coffee had just hit, maybe there was just something about his bedroom, or maybe it was the effect of being naked while Bono was around, calling himself _daddy_ , and maybe that was it. _Daddy._

 _Daddy_.

It was positively sinful, even as Edge reminded himself that he was to ignore such a thing, because that’s what they were doing, or supposed to be doing, because he didn’t quite think _daddy_ was in the realm of pretending like everything was smooth sailing.

He didn’t understand Bono sometimes, but he certainly didn’t understand himself either, least of all recently. But at the very least, he knew such a mood was preferable given what sort of day he had to endure. It was fine. Even his neck was feeling better, and that giddy feeling, it was creeping up higher, catching in his chest until he was almost certain his heart had just skipped a beat. Which seemed ludicrous, so he let it go. It was fine. It was all _juuuuust_ fine.

_Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt, you know . . ._

“Oh christ, shut up,” Edge muttered to his reflection, though as he reached for his toothbrush he could still hear that little voice in the back of his mind, screeching out a warning that he swiftly ignored. Mostly. And as he brushed his teeth, with a focused mind and a heavy hand, so hard that he wondered if and when he would be tasting blood, that little voice was drowned out by another, one that was saying, again and again, _I can do this._

He spat pink into the sink, rinsed his mouth out with water until the taste was gone, and smiled widely into the mirror. There was no spots of blood that he could see, and Edge took that as a positive sign for the day. It would be fine, he could do this, and fuck anyone who said otherwise.

Poking his head in, Bono announced, “I’ll be outside,” before disappearing so quickly that Edge half expected the Spanish Armada to be following in hot pursuit. He heard only one set of footsteps thump down the stairs, though, heavy and with purpose, and when the front door slammed mere seconds later, Edge started to wonder exactly what that purpose might be. He had a fair idea, alright, of why Bono would be in such a rush to spend some alone time outside, but Edge’s mother had always told him to give people the benefit of the doubt before jumping to conclusions, and it was only fair he do such a thing for Bono.

Because who knew? Maybe Bono wasn’t out there smoking. He might very well have been masturbating.

“Stop it,” Edge warned his reflection, though it came out all nice and playful, not stern and solemn like it could have. Should have.

He was a sorry man indeed. But when he studied himself in the mirror, Edge thought he looked five years younger.

After slipping on a pair of shoes, grabbing his wallet and phone, and spending fifteen seconds too long searching for his sunglasses - still in the car, and he was an idiot - Edge made his way downstairs, checking that the back door was locked before exiting the cottage.

Predictably, he found Bono leaning against the wall with a cigarette between his fingers. Unpredictably, Bono didn’t make a move to hide his shame. Instead, he just smiled and shrugged, taking a drag as he watched Edge lock the front door.

It was somewhat surprising after months of Bono’s constant insistence that he’d given up, despite the fact that Edge and anyone with a nose could smell the smoke on him from time to time. Or spot the carton of cigarettes in his pocket, or his bag, or just laying about as Bono put on his best poker face about the whole situation. He was useless, really, but then Edge supposed they all were for not calling him on it.

As he watched the smoke escape Bono’s mouth and nose in tantalizing tendrils, Edge found himself of two minds, with two very different ideas of how he could proceed.

 _So, exactly how did you get Bono to finally give you a blowjob_ , the press would ask if he ever survived the fucking day without drowning himself in the toilet bowl, because it was one thing to approach the day confident, but shit, he couldn’t always be strong.

_To be honest, it was incredibly easy. He was smoking a cigarette at the time, and I just told him I had something else he could wrap his lips around._

_I see, and that was when he unfastened your pants?_

_Well, he pushed me against the wall of the cottage first, but then he did unfasten my pants, yes. That is correct._

_And then what happened?_

_Then. . . then he just went to town._

It was probably best he not go for that idea, as promising as it sounded. No, it was best he go for the road more travelled.

At this rate, he would be a walking erection by the end of the day. Which was pretty counter-intuitive to how he had decided to face the day, Edge had to admit, as his stomach lurched and he wondered, for only a second, if he could just turn around, walk back inside, and pretend as though he was making a completely normal life choice.

He couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t bring himself to turn away.

Stepping forward, Edge couldn’t quite help but keep his gaze on Bono’s lips, his mind jumping back to that nice, pretty image - _I’ve wanted to do this for so long, Edge_ \- even as he said, “You’re supposed to be quitting.”

And maybe it was the thought of Bono on his knees, or even just the idea of getting a simple taste, but when Edge reached out and plucked the cigarette straight from between Bono’s lips, it seemed like one of the best ideas he’d ever had. “You know these things will kill you,” he added, then took a drag himself.

It was, as always when he let himself be weak, the best thing and the worst thing in the world - liquid gold, coursing through his veins, tingling at his fingers, lingering at his lips and pulling him down, straight down to hell, if only for that single moment. And then he was breathing out the smoke, blinking back to reality to find Bono with his bottom lip drawn in and the blues of his eyes so bright, so vivid that Edge couldn’t help but think of the waves.

“All good things in life will eventually kill you,” Bono murmured. “Shouldn’t we enjoy them while we still can?”

It took them fourteen minutes to drive to Uzès, and they did it in near-silence - no radio, no wind whistling in through a cracked-down window. Two minutes into the drive, Bono stuck his hand in Edge’s face to point at the line of trees, saying, “There was a path through the trees, did you see it?”

“ _Nooo_ , I was watching the road, strangely enough.” And he was, actively. Attentively, gripping the steering wheel so tight that it was a wonder Bono hadn’t pointed out how white-knuckled he was, though on such a blessed day it appeared that the trees were just so much more interesting than any mid-life crisis Edge might have found himself caught up in.

Though that wasn’t at all what it was. It wasn’t a crisis. It was just one of those things, and he could deal with things. He could.

Bono stared at him, then slumped back in his chair with a sigh. “I bet that’s our path.”

“Maybe.”

 _Our_ . It was always _our_ with Bono, and sometimes it was sweet, sometimes it was a little weird, sometimes it was a bit too much. Our album, our song, our house, our moment. Now, it was all Edge could focus on. Our path. Our summer of love.

 _Our kiss_ seemed only a heartbeat away.

Tightening his already ridiculous grip on the steering wheel, Edge silently urged himself to focus on the road. But it was hard. It was so hard. He could admit that much, even if anything else seemed like a stretch on such a _blessed_ day.

They were more than halfway into their little journey when Bono spoke up again. “You know, they say that a person isn’t truly dead until someone speaks their name for the last time.” He was looking out the window when Edge glanced over, and there wasn’t a single thing Edge could think to say.

Finally, he landed on, “We’re almost there,” and it wasn’t helpful, it wasn’t anything at all really, and he should have kept his mouth shut. But when he looked back, Bono was watching him with crinkly eyes and a smile that curled right on down. “What?”

Bono didn’t answer. Instead, he reached out and patted Edge on the knee, letting his hand linger for a few seconds before it was drawn back to rub at his own mouth.

On the outskirts of town there was a row of cars parked off to the side, making a haphazard line that led straight on to the roundabout ahead. “Huh,” Bono said as Edge started to slow. “I wonder why they’re parked so far out?”

“Because they’re smart,” Edge replied, then pulled in behind the very last car. After putting the car into park, he yanked the handbrake, turned off the engine, and enjoyed the silence for as long as he could. Which wasn’t long; maybe seven seconds all up.

There was no stopping Bono.

“Why are _we_ parked so far out, Edge?”

“Because we’re smart too.” Edge turned to look at Bono, his neck protesting at the sudden movement. Right. So maybe that was still an issue then. Of sorts. “Well, one of us is, anyway.”

Bono did not look entirely impressed. “You’re not funny.”

With a grin, Edge said, “I didn’t say I was funny, I said I was smart,” leaving Bono looking even less impressed, which just made Edge want to tease him some more. He resisted, though, as much as it pained him. Teasing felt normal, like something he was expected to do; anything to make Bono hide away that secret little smile. “B, look, this isn’t exactly a big town and we aren’t exactly early. At least not by market standards, anyway. I mean, we could waste time driving around looking for a park and coming up empty, or,” he shrugged, “we could just walk, like, five minutes into town. What do you suggest?”

The answer seemed pretty obvious to Edge, but as soon as the words left his lips he regretted them. Bono was smart, yes, but he was also, after so many years of fame, somewhat pampered. More than somewhat, if Edge had to be truthful. Though he’d also spent a lot more time in Africa than Edge, in some pretty extreme conditions. Actually, the more he thought about it, the more a five minute walk in the heat seemed like no big deal for Bono.

“But it’s hot,” Bono complained.

Or maybe not.

Edge rolled his eyes. “Bono, I swear to God. .  .” he started, trailing off when Bono opened his door, the smile on his face clear as day as he stepped out into the world. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Edge sitting alone in the car like a fucking idiot. “Right.” Pushing open his own door, he barely remembered to grab the keys from the ignition before sliding out. After shutting the door and locking it, he shot Bono a fierce glare over the top of the car. “You just live to complain, don’t you?”

“I don’t live for it, I just occasionally indulge. It’s more of a hobby, I suppose.” Bono threw a wink Edge’s way. “One that I only turn to when I don’t get my way.”

God forbid that ever happen. “You’re such a child,” Edge said, but he couldn’t keep the smile from his face, and it grew when Bono responded with an exaggerated pout.

“Am not.”

He was ridiculous. Bono was truly ridiculous, but if it weren’t for the car between them, Edge knew he wouldn’t have been able to keep from hugging the idiot. Which was fine. “Yes.”

“No.”

“Great, I’m glad we cleared that up.” Edge jerked his thumb toward the roundabout. “Shall we?”

“Oh, you read my mind.”

They met at the front of the car, where Bono grinned at him and crooked his arm, and Edge refused him. “Or we could be normal?”

“Don’t you want to be my Dorothy?”

Edge just sighed and started walking. After a moment, he heard the crunch of Bono’s footsteps start up behind him, and seconds later they were bumping elbows. He prepared himself for more questions or otherwise, but Bono seemed content to just walk in the wonderful quiet.

The roundabout had still seemed a far ways away when they were in the car, but on foot they approached it in no time, which Edge was thankful for. It wasn’t overwhelmingly hot, but after a couple of minutes he was feeling it nonetheless. Sweat was starting to bead at his brow, and the back of his neck was beginning to warm, which wasn’t an entirely welcome addition to the already not-right feeling he had there. His neck was again starting to feel tight, tense, in a way he still couldn’t quite explain, like maybe someone had removed his head during the night, then put it back onto his spine wrong and hoped for the best.

Or he could have just slept funny - and that was true, for a number of reasons. But the other explanation was a lot more imaginative.

As he rubbed his neck, a car driving by honked the horn at them. And of course Bono just had to wave. “See? The fans still love us.”

“I think they were just honking for the sake of it, B, not because they recognized us.”

Bono seemed unfazed. “Look at those trees, Edge. Aren’t they incredible?”

Edge peered at the trees ahead. They were nice, he supposed. Tree-like, for sure. _Incredible_ seemed like a bit of a stretch, but then Bono was Bono. “They sure are. Incredible.”

Bono shot Edge a withering look that gave way to a wide grin. “I love it here, don’t you? I mean, we’re surrounded by pure beauty, Edge.”

“Even the birds?” It slipped out before Edge could think it through, and immediately he regretted it. When Bono frowned at him, Edge helpfully supplied, “The ones in the roof,” because he was insane. Or a masochist. Why the hell did his brain think it a good idea to remind Bono of the fucking birds? There was nothing good that could come from that.

But again Bono seemed unfazed, shooting Edge another smile, one that was returned tentatively. “Of course, even the birds. Why do you think they sing?”

Edge had a fair idea, but it was always interesting to see things from Bono’s point of view. Often scientifically inaccurate, but interesting.

“A new day should always be celebrated,” Bono helpfully explained.

It was like walking into an episode of _Oprah_.

“You didn’t seem in a celebratory mood when you woke me up this morning.”

“Yeah, well.” Bono shrugged. “You fixed that, though, didn’t you?”

Missing a step, Edge stumbled just a little, managing to right himself before he went face first into the ground.

Bono just laughed, and as they passed the roundabout and came that much closer to civilization, Edge couldn’t stop his brain from _thinking_. At least, until they came upon a distraction.

Uzès was similar to Èze, Edge decided the moment his fingers brushed the first building in town. He could see Èze in the architecture and the people they passed, and as always, it was easy to pick the tourist from the local. He wondered how the people of Èze viewed them - still as tourists, spending their summers by the beach, eating and drinking themselves into a stupor while the locals worked and worked and _worked_ to make sure they all kept coming back for more, or locals?

He hoped for the latter, but maybe they still had a few years till that was the case. But as Edge looked down at the cobblestone street they were walking upon, he felt a warmth in his chest that was so familiar, so real, that he could almost see the ocean ahead; hear the waves and the children laughing, shouting, splashing in the water; feel the warm fingers grasping at his wrist.

He blinked, and saw no ocean, heard nothing but footsteps matching the beat of his heart, but still he felt the hand at his wrist. It was tightening in its grip, pulling him back. He stopped, and Bono didn’t let go.

“Do you think the Cathedral is close?” The question sounded almost urgent, but when Edge glanced over, he found Bono near expressionless but for a single raised eyebrow. His grip, though, somehow that felt urgent, and Edge focused on that hand for a beat too long, curious as to whether Bono could feel his pulse quicken, and then anxious at the thought. It felt like an admittance, maybe not a confirmation, but a seed of sorts, planted and just waiting to be tended to. If Bono knew what he knew - and he had to, how could he not? - then a hand at Edge’s wrist could be one step away from a hand elsewhere, one step away from the situation drifting further and further away from being controlled, and it wasn’t like Edge didn’t trust Bono, it wasn’t, it was just - “Well?”

Right. Shaking his head a little, Edge said, “What, hasn’t your Spidey sense started tingling yet?” Bono just stared, his hand finally slipping away. Edge missed it immediately. “No matter where we go, you always seem to stumble across one place of worship as if you were led there by some divine force.”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways, Edge.”

“That is true, but I would think he’d have better things to do then point your sorry arse in the right direction each and every time.” Edge rubbed at his neck. He could hear commotion in the distance now, the sound of _people_ , and he wasn’t quite sure how such a noise had eluded him. “Ever heard of a map?”

Bono rolled his eyes. “You intellectuals and your fancy words.”

“Sorry, I forgot who I was talking to. A map is a representation of-”

“Very cute,” Bono cut in. From every which way Edge looked at it, Bono had started the cuteness - in more ways than one, really - but he wasn’t going to bother pointing that out. It just wasn’t worth the effort. “Do you think we’re close, though?”

After a moment of looking at each other, Edge used his hand to shield the sun from his eyes, staring off into the distance for four seconds, five seconds, six, seven, before glancing back at Bono. “I’ve no fucking clue, Bono. Why the hell do you think I would know?”

“Because,” Bono said, and he sounded only a little bit crabby, “you know everything.”

They walked down a side street where a couple of stalls were set up, offering bottles of olive oil and preserves and the likes, and they had to make their way through a crowd of at least fifteen people with wallets in hand. Another side street and they found more stalls and more people, the noise of the crowd up ahead growing louder, so much louder with each step that they took. People shouting, laughing, talking, and through it all Edge could hear music that didn’t quite sound like any song he’d ever heard. French, but at the same time not, and layered in an abstract jumble that made it clear, far too slowly, that it was at least two songs he could hear, maybe three; maybe more, all mixed together in a chaotic harmony, just adding to the insanity that he was readily anticipating.

There was that look on Bono’s face, slight befuddlement mixed with dawning realization, and Edge had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing. He’d been to markets in France before; he knew exactly how insane they could be. The strange thing was, Bono had been to a couple of those markets as well.

He should have known.

The sound of laughter rung through the air, reminding him of how Sian would giggle through her tears as he tickled her feet. He looked around, expecting to find a smiling kid somewhere, maybe even a handful of them, chasing each other through the narrow streets, but he was only able to spot one child, and she certainly was not smiling.

Hidden half in shadow and away from the people, the girl couldn’t have been more than six, and there was a scowl on her face that belonged to someone at least thirty years older. In her hand was a bright red balloon. She looked like any child from any black and white French film made in the last century, and for a moment Edge doubted if she were even real. If he blinked, would she still be there? Or would she be just a moment in time; a vision, a dream that he might awaken from in a cold sweat.

It was a terrifying thought to have, and a stupid one to boot. But when she was still there after Edge blinked, and when a small smile appeared on her face after Bono waved at her, Edge couldn’t quite help feeling a little bit relieved. Maybe he wasn’t going crazy. Not over that, anyway.

He really was weird. Everyone always said it, and it was true.

The little girl was left behind, clutching her red balloon and giggling to herself about the strange little man in the sunglasses, and when they stepped out into the heart of the town, Edge wanted to reach out and take Bono’s hand.

“Jeez,” Bono said as he surveyed the chaos in front of them. “This is bigger than I expected.”

It was bigger than Edge had expected too, and he’d expected a lot. They both sidestepped into a building to avoid outgoing foot-traffic, staying there against the stone wall to further observe the crowd. People continued to pass them by, not one person giving them a second glance. It was nice, actually, even with the sun beating down. “You know,” Edge spoke up when it seemed they were destined to spend the rest of their lives in that same spot, “with so many people, you might just be able to slip through the cracks undetected.”

Bono’s eyes were purple through his lenses, the colour making his gaze somehow more intense as he stared at Edge. The sight made Edge’s chest ache, just a little. “The fact that you’re also famous always seems to slip your mind, Edge, except for those rare occasions where you _really_ want something.”

Rolling his eyes, Edge said, “I know I’m famous-”

“Oh, so today is one of those rare occasions? What could you possibly want so much, to make you acknowledge your fame?”

There were a few things, one thing especially today, though Bono’s continued insistence of talking was helping him forget that want. At least for a few minutes.

“For you to shut up?”

Bono snorted, saying, “You know that’s never going to happen,” with so much confidence, that it made the smile he threw Edge’s way that much more disarming.

Rubbing his neck and then his mouth, Edge couldn’t quite bring himself to turn away, so he didn’t. The colour wasn’t quite purple, if he really thought about it. But blue didn’t quite seem right either. Not the types of blue Edge associated with Bono, anyway, and those blues were forever changing, depending on who Bono chose to be at that point in time.

“Is this what we’re going to do all day?” Bono asked. “I mean, I’m not complaining, I just want to know if we’re going to stop for lunch.”

Edge wasn’t entirely complaining either. Still, he closed his eyes, briefly, and upon opening them found the world again made up of more than two people. “Anyway. As I was saying before you felt the need to run your mouth,” he gave Bono a pointed look that was received far too gleefully, “I know I’m famous, but we both know there are different levels, and we certainly know after all this time that your level is so high compared to mine that it’s headed for the fucking moon.”

“The moon?” Bono gave a low whistle. “My fame is rather ambitious, don’t you think?”

“Ha ha. Very funny.”

“I thought so.” Offering up a shit-eating grin, Bono seemed a man completely in his element, but as he turned to glance at the crowd, that confidence tumbled slightly. “Big crowd, Edge.”

“You like big crowds.”

“I do.” Bono let out a laugh. “You’re right on that one.” There was a _but_ hanging in the air, though, and patiently Edge waited for what he already kind of knew was coming. “Would you hate me if-”

“No,” Edge cut in, because it was true. No matter what, he knew the answer to all the different ways that sentence could end would be _no_ . No matter what. And god, having such a thought felt like slipping, just a bit, even if he wasn’t entirely sure why or even how. But when Bono smiled at him, crooked and warm, it made Edge feel as though everything would be fine, truly. “It’ll probably be easier work on my own, anyway. Not to mention quicker, since I won’t have to stop every thirty seconds for you to marvel over a fucking _vase_.”

“That vase was nearly as tall as me, Edge-”

“That’s not exactly an incredible achievement, Bono.”

Bono’s jaw set, even as his eyes held their warmth. “You’re not that much taller.”

“But I am taller.”

Rolling his eyes, Bono turned away with a muttered, “Wanker,” though when he glanced back over his shoulder a moment later, he was grinning. “You have your phone on you, right?”

“Yes. Do you?”

Bono paused momentarily, patting at his pockets, and even he looked a little surprised when the answer turned out to be _yes_. “Call me when you’re done, okay? Or come find me. Or leave me behind, I’d understand, Edge, I really would.”

He wouldn’t, but the mental image of it all made Edge laugh, even as he said, “Don’t get lost.”

“I won’t.”

“Yes, you will.”

Bono just shrugged, a smile on his face as he walked backwards toward the crowd. Then he turned, and it wasn't long until he was swallowed completely. The sight made Edge feel a little anxious. He found himself staring after Bono, unsure of how to proceed; unsure of anything really, and the feeling came all at once, leaving him lost.

It was only a moment, though, and then it was gone. All at once, he felt fine. Capable, even, though he just had to check his pocket to make sure his phone really was there. It was, of course it was, but it was just one of those things, he supposed.

For a minute or so, Edge just stood there on the outskirts, watching the crowd lurch. Then, after taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, he slowly started forward, making his way into the belly of the beast. There was milk to be bought, after all, and he was more than capable. He was fine.

He could do this.

  



	11. The Marketplace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Presenting the next chapter of Nexus, or as I like to think of it, Edge's continued descent into utter madness. I hope you all enjoy, this is a chapter I've been waiting to write since....since the day I started writing this damn fic. It feels good to get it out in the open for you all to read, SO GOOD. Also, there are a couple of lines of French in here that I translated via google, so sorry to any speakers of French if I got it wrong. I'M SORRY
> 
> I don't know when the next chapter will be. Working near full time and doing uni near full time - oh boy, there isn't enough hours in the day sometimes. But I hope it won't be too long. Enjoy. I love you all

Edge wasn’t entirely sure if he could, in fact, do this. 

Bustling through the crowd, the scent of sweat, perfume and humanity encompassing him, he felt the slightest tinge of panic. He had never been one to suffer from claustrophobia, and though he preferred not to be caught in a crowd, he rarely complained. But today, it felt different. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he was feeling slightly delicate, for whatever reason he could think to imagine - and there were so many, he knew, most of the stemming from a single being, he who was as problematic as he was charismatic in this regard. And often in others, too. 

Shoulder to shoulder in the crowd, being bumped and jostled until he was close to defeat, Edge caught himself picturing how Bono might react, if he were to sit him down -   _ J’accuse, Bono! _ \- and point the blame. For being left in the midst of a crowd, on a mission from God or whatever, to find milk and anything else he might stumble across, and Christ help him. But also, for all of the other wrongs that had happened in Edge’s life, starting at a point five years before, maybe even earlier, likely even earlier, because of Bono. Shaking an accusing finger, shouting, “You’re the reason I cannot sleep at night! You and that look in your eye,” even as Bono gave him that very same look, a smile on his face as he all but purred back:

“And what are you going to do about it? Punish me?”

Maybe he could. Maybe he would. He certainly had entertained such thoughts once or twice in the past, and now it seemed especially alluring; a way out, a way through it all, and when he did break through, to a place in the crowd where he could catch his breath, it took a moment for Edge to do just that. It was the briefest of hells he had been caught in, and there was more where that came from, he was sure, but for now he could breathe. 

Not quite shoulder to shoulder any longer, but still in close proximity to them all - a manageable distance that left him feeling completely normal, the burden of panic slipping from his chest, his shoulders, leaving him with a neck that was still problematic and a slight sense of embarrassment, brought on by his own special brand of internalized melodrama. Yes, Bono could be a diva. And yes, Edge claimed to have no part in any of that. But sometimes, deep inside, he found himself caught up in it all.

He shook his head. Laughed. Rubbed at his neck as he glanced at his surroundings. There were still people everywhere, crowded and surging as though they were headed towards the slaughter, but he was at a place where he could breathe it all in and be glad for it. The only sweat he could smell was his own, but even that was distant, overpowered by the most intoxicating array of scents; a mixed batch that could never be replicated, never be found unified as they were, in any place other than a market. In France. Spices and flowers, reminding Edge of springtime, of cologne lingering against a pillow, and accompanying that was the pungent smell of fresh fish, a scent that he didn’t quite care for on such a day, but appreciated nonetheless.

And of course there was the food; freshly baked bread that beckoned him forward, coffee that reminded him of her, on those early mornings when the sun was only beginning to rise, her voice scratchy from sleep as she said, “We’re so blessed, aren’t we, honey?”

They were. Together, especially, they were blessed. And he thought of her, even as he headed toward a flower stall, determined to find the source of that scent, smelling as it did like springtime in the midst of summer. 

It was maddening when he couldn’t, but he managed to move on, glancing back as he did, straight on back to the crowd that had nearly swallowed him whole. Little had changed, though he was free of it now, and there had to be a stall in the midst of it all, attracting such a bevy of people; jostling, pushy, loud people with their wallets in hand, a sense of purpose to some of them even as they all seemed a little lost. And maybe there was something incredible in the belly of it all, something he was missing out on, but it wasn’t worth it to care.

For a moment, though, as he wandered on, Edge entertained the thought of Bono being the attraction that brought them all forward, wallets in their hand. How high would one bid to bring home such a little gift? 

Edge snorted at the thought. A girl at his elbow shot him a dirty look as she stepped away. It was typical, all so typical.

Past a stall specializing in tomatoes and seemingly little else, with a disinterested woman attending - more focused on her nails then any customers that headed her way - Edge came to a wall of chickens roasting on spits. He wasn’t especially hungry, not yet, but still he stood there for a stupidly long time, watching the skins glisten in the sunlight. The sight was mesmerizing, the smell even better, and, as he imagined just how juicy a single bite of breast would be, a shifty little man sidled up to him with a wide smile, looking as though he was in the business of selling _things_. “Is good, yes?” he said, his accent threadbare, gesturing towards the row of chickens. “You like what you see?”

“Oh, I don’t eat anything that clucks,” Edge responded before swiftly moving away, biting back his smile when he caught the man frowning after him. He was sure, had he not been alone, that they would have walked away laughing. Or would still be back there, Bono trusting anything with a heartbeat, as curious as the man was slippery,  _ why yes I will follow you back to your car and check out your array of goods, my friend! Quit worrying, Edge, what could possibly go wrong? _

One day soon, Bono was going to get them all killed. God help him, though, because Edge knew that he would follow him blindly, straight on into the slaughterhouse.

And there he was, his thoughts preoccupied once more. With a great number of things, but mostly with the thought of a hand at Bono's neck, and the intent that had come from such an innocent gesture. He pushed it aside, or at least tried to, focusing on exactly what sort of things they needed from the market, as well as a few things they didn’t. Milk. Milk was important. After all, it made you grow up big and strong, and he could do with some strength. 

But as it was the sun was beating down on them, persistent as it was bright, and though Edge didn’t entirely feel like he had enough smarts to make it through the day, let alone life after that morning, he was switched on enough to know that milk and heat were not the best of combinations. And knowing Bono - and he did know Bono, Christ, it was all he could think of sometimes, how well he knew Bono - there was a good chance that, post-market, he would find himself caught up in some _whatever_ , like a shiny thing on the ground or a strange little alcove that didn’t seem entirely real, that possibly only appeared when Bono came across it with his powers of voodoo, leading to a mystical realm that was just an everyday occurrence for him. 

Anything could happen. Often it did. Edge could almost guarantee it, and he knew, if he did set to complete his ever so important quest of of purchasing milk, that they would end up throwing rose petals over a bride they hadn’t met yet, hugging her and laughing with her four hours later, with a bottle of milk at his side completely spoiled by the heat. And that was only one scenario out of a hundred. Anything could happen with Bono.

It had been a nice wedding, though, three years, four years ago. He couldn’t recall her name, but she had reminded Edge of his daughters.

It was best he leave the milk until after. Maybe the market would be over by then, but he was sure the town had shops that sufficed every other day of the week. And if there weren’t, then . . . 

Life would go on. Supposedly. 

For a while he just wandered, taking in the sights, losing track of time, and collecting a few things that likely wouldn’t spoil - dried pasta, some ruby-red apples that looked as though they had leapt straight from a still life painting, a jar filled with who-knows-what. Edge hadn’t taken much notice of the actual ingredients, more caught up in the colour and texture of the contents. And of course, he had to buy some cheese. They didn’t need it, he knew, but it was hard to resist. It was the tiniest of portions he asked for, receiving a curious and baffled look from the girl serving him, a hard cheese that he doubted would spoil. Not that it mattered, as he found a shady spot for a brief interlude, scoffing down his tiny cheese and chasing it with a freshly squeezed cup of orange juice.

The cheese didn’t have much of a taste, but it still made him smile. A distraction of sorts, just a slight pause in proceedings, and then he was back at it, now mostly disinterested in the food being offered - though he did pick up a couple of overpriced fruit scones, freshly baked and smelling heavenly. No doubt Bono would be hungry when they found one another. He would need a snack before lunch. He usually did.

It was strange, caught up in the bustle yet still floating through as though he hadn’t a care in the world - and it was nice to imagine that, nice to live in a world of denial - how quickly time became a non-issue. He couldn’t quite recall what time Bono had left him, had no idea how long it had been since, and had no memory of them deciding when exactly they should meet. He had an idea of where, but the question of how long? Well, that was surely one of life's great mysteries. There was even the chance that Bono might get caught up, as he often did, and lose track of him completely. 

And then Edge could make his escape.

At least, he could entertain the thought for all of a moment before deciding, no, he changed his mind, he didn’t want to leave. He couldn’t. Not even if he wanted to, which it seemed he didn’t. 

Bono would be the death of him.

Slowly, drifting through the crowd as though he were weightless, a ghost - and maybe already Bono had brought him to ruin, the  _ bastard  _ \- Edge took in the stalls as he passed them, his gaze unfocused, coming back into clarity, his surroundings blending into a curious streak of colours. He felt a little drunk, and maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was something else entirely. He wasn’t sure, though he had his suspicions, and Jesus, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to go back to how it was before. He wasn’t sure if he could stand not to either.

It seemed as though a few stalls were starting to pack up, even as the rowdy crowd seemed to be picking up steam. He came to a stop next to a stall of just handbags, handmade and hanging above his head. Cautiously, he handled a pink and red leather bag, unsure of whether it was too grown up for Hollie, or more suited for Morleigh’s taste. 

She would hate it, he realized, a lot later than he should have.

The next stall seemed more her style, boasting brightly colourful bowls that he just had to admire, for the craftsmanship if nothing else. They were definitely well-made, with the sort of character that Morleigh adored, and Edge knew he had to get her something. As a general gift, or to make up for . . . 

Abandoning her when she was pregnant? Edge rubbed at his neck.

Sure. That would do nicely. 

And maybe he was a bastard, or maybe he wasn’t, but at least he left that stall having bought her something. It was a lovely white bowl, striped with blue, that was thankfully not too heavy, though it needed a brand new bag separate from the one he already carried. Perhaps she would turn it into a fruit bowl, or maybe it would sit in the cupboard, gathering dust until she found a use for it. Either way, it was still a damn nice looking bowl.

Around him more stalls were closing up shop, and Edge could relate. He’d almost had enough as well, of the sights as well as the company, and he had half a mind to head whichever way occurred to him first and hope for the best. Surely it wouldn’t be  _ that  _ hard to find a cathedral.

But then, out the corner of his eye, he spotted something that appeared so innocent that it had to be dangerous. It wasn’t necessary to even consider, and of course he headed straight for it.

It was just a normal scarf, royal blue and surrounded by a smattering of multicoloured weavings, but Edge was drawn to it nonetheless. And he knew why, though he wasn’t even sure if he could admit it to himself, let alone the woman smiling warmly his way. Reaching out a hand, he looked her way for approval before closing the gap completely, and of course it was as soft as it looked, so soft it felt like a luxury. Against his hand the blue looked even more glorious, and he knew he had to have it.

“Ah, il est beau, non?”

He jumped at the sound of her voice, immediately feeling completely stupid for it, but she just kept on smiling. Even when it took Edge a few seconds to work out what she had said - at least, he had a rough idea - still the smile stayed on her face.

“Oui?” he offered up, and she let out a pleasant chuckle, even as her gaze sharpened. Edge stayed stock still, hand caught up in the scarf, and allowed himself to be scrutinized. He wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but she seemed nice enough so he was willing to help her try and find it. 

Though when her eyes cleared and she said, “Pour votre amant?” he wondered if maybe he should have just kept on walking. Because he wasn’t entirely fluent in French, but he knew enough to know what she was saying to him. Knew enough to know that an assumption had been made, and it would be so easy to correct her, for him to throw out the age-old, “No no, we’re just friends, honestly,” or even just shake his head, for Christ sake, but he didn’t. He just didn’t. 

Though he did hesitate, briefly. But when her smile widened, looking all  _ knowing  _ and shit, Edge figured fuck it, he didn’t know her, she didn’t know him - presumably - and so he let out a too-loud, “Merci!” Which was actually an odd thing to follow with after what she had said, and he deserved the strange look he received. Rubbing at his neck, he looked studiously at the scarf, as though that might help.

There was a chance he had no idea what he was even doing, in life or in that particular moment, but when he pulled out his wallet and asked, “How much,” it seemed that, no matter what sort of strange shit he said, still he managed to speak her language.

He left the stall with the scarf nestled safely on top of the bowl, feeling like a bit of a fool. And a bastard. And God only knows what else, because he had no idea anymore. It was the middle of summer and he had just bought a scarf. There were no upcoming reasons for gift-giving, unless he counted the ring in his suitcase as a gift, and yet there he was, walking through the crowd with two bags in his hand slowly weighing him down, holding a bowl that seemed unnecessary and a scarf that had possibly been made for only one person on the goddamn Earth, and as such was completely necessary. Even if there was, in fact, no reason for gifting it.

Maybe he could just wait. Christmas was soon, if six months could be classed as  _ soon _ . Perhaps they could do Christmas in July. Or celebrate a random Tuesday. Or, if Edge were truly truthful to himself, which seemed like such an odd thing to wish for, he could just admit to Bono exactly how it had all went down:  _ I saw it and thought of you. _

It was as easy as that. He didn’t have to mention the look of the scarf, how such a rich colour could only take him back to that morning, when he had been close enough to truly appreciate the blue of Bono’s eyes. No, he didn’t have to do that at all. He didn’t have to do anything, really. He could even leave the scarf in the bag, for  _ months _ , until it was discovered in the back of a cupboard by Morleigh, and she would start wearing it, and Edge would have to go and drown himself in the toilet somewhere.

He wondered what would happen if he screamed, right there in the middle of town. Would people stop and stare? Or would they just continue on?

Edge thought he knew the answer. And that in itself was enough to calm him down, strangely enough. Make him even laugh - softly, so as to not disturb any of the people passing by. He didn’t want the attention they might give him, even for the briefest of moments. Not from them.

_ You keep telling us you’re fine, and yet you went and bought Bono a glorious scarf for no reason . . . can you explain your reasons for doing so _ , the press would ask if he ever made it out of this town alive.

_ I cannot. But I can assure you that I am, incredibly, still completely fine. _

_ That may be the case, but are you sure you absolutely cannot shed any more light on the scarf incident? I mean, what is your endgame, Edge? _

_ It’s nothing nefarious, I swear, I just thought it would look nice. _

_ I see. And when you picture Bono wearing that scarf, is he wearing anything else, or is it just the scarf?  _

_. . . this interview is over. _

He had to laugh. 

He just had to.

On the outskirts of the crowd he found another shaded area, where he sat on the ground with his knees pulled up close to him and his head back against the wall, eyes closed as he tried to find a sense of clarity. It wasn’t a good position for his neck, but he didn’t care. He just had to sit in silence for a while. Or, as close to silence as he could find, so close to a surging crowd.

Slowly, he was able to find himself, little by little. Think it through and come out with no new answers, sure, but no new questions either. He supposed that was a good thing. 

Though still Edge couldn’t help but wonder just how fucked he truly was.

He just had to control it. He could do that. Had for five years now, longer, with only a few slip ups. He could totally do it.

Christ, he was completely delusional. And again he had to laugh, because it was a terrible predicament to be found in, but at least, he was almost sure, they were in it together.

Which actually wasn’t a good thing, if he thought it through properly. 

Beneath the din of the crowd, Edge could faintly make out a new sound, and it took him a moment to realize it was coming from his pants. He slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, knowing exactly who was calling before he even hit  _ answer _ . 

Are you almost done?” Bono asked, his voice quiet and serene in comparison to Edge’s surroundings. It was nice to hear, pleasing - and wasn’t it always - and Edge was tempted to keep him talking, get him to rattle off a few facts about, say, The Beatles, because after so many years clearly Bono still had more to say, but  _ almost done? _ meant _ hurry up _ and Edge knew better than to tempt fate. He glanced around as if he were looking for a reason to stay, and there were more things he could have looked at, sure, but there were so many people still, and after a week of growing used to a company of one, he wasn’t sure how much more he could stand. 

Besides, he’d gotten what he needed, and a couple of things he didn’t. “Yeah, why?”

“Good, meet me here when you can.” Bono hung up before Edge could even begin to ask, and it was great, just great. It hadn't been that long since Bono had told Edge that he knew everything, but he still didn’t know where the fucking Cathedral was in the town. And now there was  _ expectation _ . He was going to have to face Bono again, and try and keep it in his pants. 

Right.

Pocketing his phone, he glanced around with a frozen grin on his face, uncertain and feeling a little foolish. He could wander around, or call Bono back, and both those choices would likely result in him getting completely lost. Bono may have been brilliant at many things, but he was rubbish when it came to directions. 

No, he couldn’t do either of those things, not unless he was stupid. Clearly, he had to take his own advice that he’d given Bono and either find a map - unlikely - or just select someone at random and hope for the best.

“Excuse me, Miss?”

She didn’t speak much English but she had a pretty smile that shone bright when she laughed. Pointing in the distance she gave directions that Edge didn’t entirely understand, but he was sure he’d caught enough to paint a nice picture of the town. 

Besides, he’d made his way through many situations with much flimsier directions, once even with the map being read upside down - Bono’s fault, because of course it was - and they always laughed about it when it was over.

She tucked her hair behind her ear as he thanked her, smiling so wide her cheeks started to turn, and Edge wondered if she recognised him. He considered asking, but it seemed presumptuous and arrogant and he was neither of those things. He didn’t think, anyway. And then she was gone, waving as she went, enveloped by the crowd, leaving him alone as he could be in the midst of a French marketplace, cracking his neck and feeling suddenly out of place.

Right. 

With a faint idea of where he was going, Edge made his way through the town, steadfast and a little wary, taking in the buildings as he went. 

It was so tempting to stop and admire, but that usually resulted in him  _ wandering _ , and who knew where he might end up? Besides, Bono could turn from pleasant to cranky with a single phone call, and Edge was just as bad sometimes. No, it was definitely in his best interest to stay on course. 

So he did. Somewhat. Slowly. And maybe he did get lost once or twice, he would never really know, but in the end he made it to precisely where he was supposed to be.

It was a stunning building, reaching well into the sky with a purpose that Edge could not even begin to understand, and although he had seen a lot of stunning buildings over the years, still he paused to take it all in. 

All the commotion seemed to be behind him, internally and otherwise, and when he walked through the tall wooden doors, it was as if he had entered another world entirely. One comprising of peace and quiet, though all that went out the window as soon as Bono spotted him. 

It had been good while it lasted, those whole two seconds of peace. Though Edge couldn’t complain, nor could he keep the smile from his face. 

_ Crap _ .

He was in trouble. Already.

His smile was returned as Bono pulled himself up off the ground, and why he was sitting down there when so many pews were available - all of the pews, in fact, and he’d expected something different, something a little more crowded, a little more communal - Edge just didn’t know. “Wow,” he said blandly. “Where is everyone?”

“I know, isn’t it great?” Bono beamed. “In all the time I’ve been here, only a handful of people have trickled in and out. Actually, you’re actually the only person I’ve seen for at least half an hour. I don’t know, Edge, I guess the market is far more interesting on a Saturday.”

“Tell me about it, there’s still a crowd and a half out there.”

Edge’s arm was beginning to ache, and when he transferred the bags from one hand to the other, it only brought him a little bit of relief. The day had taken its toll, mentally as well as physically, and it was barely lunch time. He needed a break. And maybe a neck massage. And . . . _ no _ .  A break and a massage, that was all, no matter the thoughts that sprung to mind when their eyes locked. 

Bono was wearing a half smile that didn’t make Edge wonder, didn’t make him picture something more, and certainly did not drag him right back to that morning in bed, their closeness almost damning. 

No, they were perfectly pure thoughts crossing Edge’s mind as he stood there in the doorway of such a holy place. Pure. Thoughts about kittens and flowers and the curious way Bono’s lower lip curled, dipped, and did all sorts of interesting things. And that curious feeling that enveloped Edge when he followed the line of Bono’s mouth, twisting him deep inside when that line curved into a smile, teeth flashing, eyes gleaming - as if Bono knew exactly what was going through Edge’s mind.

Such pure thoughts.

He waited for Bono to say something, but it didn’t come. So instead, the two of them just stood there, Edge being weighed down by bags and the most intimately pure thoughts, Bono looking as free as a bird, like he’d not a care in the world. They watched each other as the silence stretched out - and maybe it was only a few seconds, maybe it was a good couple of minutes, Edge just didn’t trust himself to make judgement on anything anymore, not even the passage of time. 

But he knew it had to be stopped, because he didn’t know about Bono, couldn’t quite get a grasp of what was going on in that funny little mind of his, but he had about twelve trains of half-thought barreling through his own mind, and eleven of them were insisting the two of them meet in the middle, lose the bags, lose the baggage, and do some serious sinning right there under the watchful eye of the Almighty. 

And, as intriguing as those thoughts were, Edge knew he could never bring himself to be quite  _ that  _ sacrilegious.

“What have you been doing all this time?”

Casually, as if they had just spent the last couple of minutes discussing a shopping list, Bono shrugged. But it was a sly little smile he sent Edge’s way as he said, “Paying my respects.” Reaching out, he took Edge’s newly free hand in his. It was an act that could only lead to trouble, an act that Edge welcomed quite gladly.  _ Shit _ . He was slipping, but Bono was smiling. Both their palms were sweaty and warm, and when Bono started to tug it wasn’t a firm grip at all, but Edge moved with him nonetheless. “Come on.”

“What?”

Bono just winked, something he had done a thousand times before, more, and there was nothing different about it this time, certainly nothing Edge had not seen before, those so many other times where Bono had tried to charm him and he had remained completely unaffected, but this time (and who was he kidding? There had been other times, and half the time it hadn’t even taken a wink) Edge found himself turning into literal putty in Bono’s hand. 

Oh, it was not good.

And when Bono started walking backward, smiling like the sun at him, palms sweaty, grip firming, of course Edge allowed himself to be led. He couldn’t say no, couldn’t pull his hand away, couldn’t do much of anything but be dragged deeper into the building, away from society, to a place where it was only the two of them, and it wasn’t the place for Edge to be thinking about kissing Bono, but it couldn’t be helped. Not when he was looking so content, so peaceful, his hand squeezing Edge’s rhythmically, as if to say  _ here, right here, I’m herefocushere, and don’t you dare forget it, love. _

How could he?

He couldn’t.

_ here, right here . .  . _

It was dangerously mesmerizing. Captivating. Completely thrilling, though he doubted he would ever admit it. He wondered how Bono would react, though, if he did give in and do it, pull him close and give him what he deserved, in such a holy place. Edge had half a mind to picture it, know Bono’s response, be glad for it and then uncertain, and then he lost it all completely when they came to a sudden halt.

“Here,” Bono said quietly, his hand slipping from Edge’s, and it was an anchor that was missed only in part, as Edge was too busy being stuck on that one simple word that had just been uttered. It was a coincidence, nothing more, and yet it took his breath away for the briefest of moments, catching in his chest as he allowed the word to roll around in his mind, simple and innocuous and heart-stopping.  _ Here _ .

To think, Bono had brought the two of them down here in search of a connection they were missing. To even think . . . 

“. . .Edge. Edge?” 

“Huh?”

That smile. Slight bemusement, with a touch of knowing - at least Edge thought there was, and he could have been projecting - and an air of mystery that he had rarely had to look past when it came to Bono. It left him a little uncertain - of a few things, yes, but mostly of what Bono was going to say next. 

He had half a mind to speak up first, land on something insignificant and long-winded and go from there, until Bono’s eyes glazed over and he began to forget all about any half-cocked notions he might have had. If there had been any, and maybe it be best for Bono to lay them all out in the open air right then and there, because at least one of them would be saying  _ something _ . 

Try as he might, and he did try, his thoughts pinwheeling, Edge just could not bring himself to utter a single measly syllable. But even if he had, even if he’d let out a whole string of them, on and on about the weather or the mating rituals of Bengal tigers (there had been nothing on television one night a few weeks prior, and even if there had Edge knew he would have stuck with the nature documentary, like he always did. Every damn time) or whatever sort of silly tangent he might find himself caught up in, flailing for an finish and desperate to keep it all alive, even then he knew Bono would remain engrossed in what he was saying. Through and through, eyes fixed and smiling, head cocked and lips parting at the appropriate, respectful places,  _ why is that, Edge? _ and  _ tell me more _ and, finally,  _ God, the things you know, Edge. The things you know. _

He didn’t know everything. God, he knew so little sometimes.

“Floating through the cosmos again, are we?” Bono mused when neither of them had spoken for - Christ, who even knew anymore. It couldn’t have been long. It felt like an age. 

Edge felt himself flush. Again, he transferred the bags from hand to hand, though this time it felt more like biding time than relieving the strain. “No, no, I was just-”

Bono cut in with, “You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” his gaze flitting across Edge’s face all the while, searching for what Edge could only assume was an explanation of sorts. He didn’t have one, really, but nevertheless Bono’s expression cleared briefly before giving way to a sweet smile. “Here,” he said again, reaching out a hand once more. It landed on Edge’s shoulder this time, grip tight but bearable, and then he was being turned, manipulated, until they were both somewhat facing the tall wooden doors. 

With a choked back laugh that ended in a suspicious cough, and Edge could only begin to imagine what was going through that mind, Bono wrangled him like a poseable statue until he was standing head on and straight. The bags were taken from his hand and set gently on the floor, bringing relief that went almost entirely unnoticed, as, with his hand still lingering at Edge’s shoulder, Bono pressed close up behind him, smelling like springtime. “Up high, Edge.”

It took Edge a moment. Longer, actually, as he steeled himself and tried to form a thought that was more coherent than  _ donowturnyes!good?  _ And he might not have been entirely successful in that regard, but when Bono’s hand abandoned his shoulder to point, high above their heads, Edge at least had enough smarts left in him to look up. 

He was glad he did. 

“What do you think?” Bono breathed in his ear, warm and so close that it was easy to imagine only the two of them alone in the entire town; just the two of them left beneath a sprawling pipe organ, crafted with a single goal in mind: extravagance.

Edge thought it reminiscent of an angel. 

The top part stretched out like the spanning of wings, its finishings in gold. That very same gold was carved into the mass of white, depicting figures and images he couldn’t quite place but knew were special, all looking down on the two of them as if sent by heaven.

“It’s beautiful,” Edge said, for lack of a better description. Such a word didn’t quite seem enough, but it was all he had. 

“Beautiful,” Bono echoed, his chin pressing into Edge’s shoulder, fingers wrapped around his arm now. They stood like that, silent, gazing transfixed up towards the pipe organ. Then Bono exhaled. “We’re truly blessed, Edge. We are.”

He stepped away, and the spell was broken. Gone was the heat at Edge’s back, around his arm, taking with it the magic of what was above him. His neck felt worse for looking up, and when he turned, massaging just below his hairline, Bono had already started to wander. The bags were still on the ground, and Edge stared at them, searching for answers in all the wrong places.

With a sigh, he picked them up before following Bono dutifully, away from the pews and off to the side, the both of them quiet until they were mostly hidden (from what, or who, and why? They were all sound questions that would never be asked) behind a thick stone column. “Yeah,” Bono said, “this is good.”

“What?”

Bono smiled brilliantly. “Sit down with me.”

“Sit? Here?” Edge rubbed at his neck. “Why?”

Bono didn’t answer. He just sat, folding himself down a little awkwardly, knees cracking as he went. Once down, he glanced up expectantly. 

It was pointless asking again, pointless to argue. Still, Edge waited until he was down on the ground, where such a petty little defiance could be seen in all its glory, before rolling his eyes. Though it quickly became clear that such a reaction was expected - wanted, even - when Bono’s expression turned gleeful. He was a child. Endearing and strange, in ways that brought out decidedly unchildlike thoughts in Edge. “Why,” he said again.

Bono shrugged. “I like it down here. Sitting on the ground. It’s nice.”

“Nice? Is it?” Edge let out a snort, though his heart wasn’t in it. He could barely manage the effort, caught up as he was.

Bono just shrugged again, a small smile playing on his lips as he watched Edge, carefully, as though he was waiting for something. Really, it almost seemed as though he was waiting for a story, with his legs crossed and his expression wide open. It was how Edge remembered himself as a small boy, tucked tightly into bed with his mother perched next to him, a book in her lap sometimes, other times empty handed, relying on the inner workings of her own curious mind. 

And thinking back to those times, sitting where they were, Edge couldn’t help but recall the oft-repeated warning his mother had given him. It seemed a ludicrous subject to bring up, but he did it anyway, feeling slightly manic as he said, “It’s not good to sit on a floor like this, you know, you can catch a cold.”

Bono’s eyebrows went up. “It’s summer, Edge.”

Edge was more than aware. Biting back a smile and keeping his voice barely casual, he said, “I’m just sayin’. That’s what my mum would always say.”

“Did she now.” Bono’s lip quirked. “Well, Mrs. The Edge did always know best.”

“Mmm. And you know what else?”

“Oh,  _ enlighten  _ me, Edge.”

“She said that sitting on a cold floor gave you piles.”

A pause. “Piles.”

“Yes. Piles.”

Bono mulled this new information over with a quiet, “Hmm.” Then, frown turning into a grin that bordered on cheeky, he looked at Edge sidelong and said, “Well, thank the Lord it is summer then, ‘cause being struck down with that sort of a problem would make things a little . . .problematic.” And then he was laughing, a deep rumble that started in his chest and grew when Edge joined in - a bit unsure as to  _ why  _ but caught up in it nonetheless - before fading away slowly and ending in a satisfied little sigh for the both of them. 

Slowly, Bono rubbed at his mouth, his gaze flickering to the wall before glancing back at Edge. He smiled, shrugged, then turned his attention toward the bags. “What did you bring me?”

Edge paused, though he wasn’t sure why. There was no way that Bono could know about the scarf, after all, unless he had his spies out. And what an interesting turn of events that would be, if it ever eventuated that Bono did have spies, those poor souls tasked with following Edge into crowded bookshops and quaint cafes, searching for the perfect amount of peace that he often could find only deep inside himself - and even that was fleeting. God, imagine if they ever had to watch him try and capture one of those distinct and far-reaching sounds that only he could hear, the sort that never sounded quite the same transferred from mind to fingers. It would be akin to torture. 

Bono was looking at him expectantly, perhaps a little oddly, and Edge, caught up in his own inner musings, had almost forgotten the question. Almost. Smiling, feeling a little silly for it, and maybe a bit anxious still about being caught out - though he had bought that scarf for a reason, one that he still wasn’t completely sure of, except that he was, but either way it didn't matter because one day he would actually have to hand the damn thing over - he asked, “What do you mean?”

The question seemed to confuse Bono. “For lunch, Edge? I’m fucking hungry.” Immediately he pulled a face, glancing up towards the ceiling with a muted  _ sorry _ , and he crossed himself and bowed his head momentarily before setting his gaze squarely back on Edge, his eyes twinkling despite himself.

Really, he was too endearing for his own good sometimes, and Edge didn’t know how to handle him when he was like that. Well, he did; or rather, he had - once - but now thoughts tended to stray south far too quickly in such scenarios. He had a fair idea of how he wanted to handle Bono when he was at his most endearing, and even when he was being a prick, but such thoughts were not exactly ideal when dealing with the subject of lunch. Which, apparently, Edge was supposed to have brought. 

Lunch. 

They hadn’t discussed it. Perhaps an assumption had been made. Perhaps Edge was just supposed to read minds and know, and of course he was, because that’s how life just was with Bono. And sure, he had those scones, but scones did not fall under Bono’s definition of  _ lunch _ , and for good reason. “Well,” Edge pulled at his neck, offering Bono a placating smile, “I thought we could go to one of the cafes?” 

Bono shook his head, his tone bordering on whiny as he said, “I don’t want to go to a cafe. A  _ cafe _ , Edge? No.”

Edge was almost relieved to hear it, but still he shot back, “You like cafes. You get to drink as much coffee as you want at cafes.”

“Do I now?” Bono threw his head back and let out a short, mocking laugh. “‘Oh, but wouldn’t you rather wine instead, Bono?’ Sound familiar?”

“But you would rather wine.”

Rubbing at his mouth, his gaze shifting, Bono mused, “I would, you got me there.” Then he sighed, looking back at Edge with a rueful smile. “I can’t handle - I just, I don’t feel like I can deal with people today, you know? Or this week, even. I mean, I need the peace. I don’t know, I just feel . .  .” He shook his head. “I don’t want to be with anyone but you this week. I need the peace.”

“Okay,” Edge said slowly, though his brain was rushing like a scalded cat. Anyone but him? The entire week? Just the two of them the entire week. 

It wasn’t a big deal. Edge had known it was just the two of them the entire week, had planned on it even. But he hadn’t  _ known  _ it. Just the two of them meant, to Edge, the two of them and people they encountered along the way, those who supplied food or otherwise, and at the end of the day when they were crawling into their (respective) beds, they would be full and happy after such random encounters, and it would be just the two of them under the one roof. 

But Bono didn’t even want that. 

Oh no, Bono couldn’t handle even a fucking cafe to sit in and drink coffee and wine and eat bread until he couldn’t stand it anymore, served by a pretty girl he could charm, ask her name and repeat it back to her, practically purring until she was blushing and giggling, caught under his spell like they always were. No, that wasn’t in the cards for the day, it seemed. Just the two of them, sitting on the floor of a cathedral, alone in a cottage, waking in a single bed. Just the two of them, because Bono couldn’t handle anything else.

And this was Bono saying that. Bono, who loved people so much that, left to his own devices, he would likely quite happily go home with anyone who invited him. Not in a sleazy way, though Edge was sure that some of those people had bad intentions, but an  _ aren’t human beings fucking incredible?!  _ sort of way. Some of them were, sure, a couple in particular, but Edge had never quite been able to relate. This, though, this was something that Edge could identify with. “You know, you’re sounding a bit like me there, B.”

“I know,” Bono said with a wink. “You must be rubbing off on me.”

Edge couldn’t manage a reply. He had many that sprung to mind, most of them not appropriate for the setting - for any time really, and he was spiralling - but he couldn’t even find a voice for the ones that were shockingly pure, all two of them.

Bono’s words had painted Edge a nice little image that he knew would haunt him for weeks to come,  _ yesEdgemore _ , and though they were both clothed in that nice little image it still seemed a thought more wicked than many of the others that had stuck in his mind. 

Maybe it was the setting that made it so. Maybe it was how readily he entertained it, a little slack jawed and unfocused, looking at Bono but not  _ looking _ . 

Bono, for his part, was just looking back, a small smile on his face that Edge, caught up as he was, still managed to notice. Smiling at him, mouth at his neck, hand trailing down his back, grasping, pulling him closer, laughing a little, closer still, breath hot as he moaned for it,  _ Edge, Edge, moreyes _ , still smiling, speaking to him now, “You didn’t get anything, did you.”

Edge honestly had no idea what the fuck Bono was talking about. He could barely focus on what had just been said, caught up as he was, and he was a little miffed at the interruption. Actually, miffed didn’t seem quite the right word. Inspired was much more fitting. Certainly, he might have been miffed to have been pulled from his wonderful imagery. But, away from his thoughts, looking straight on at the star of his little fantasy, Edge was nearly inspired enough to reach out a hand and pull Bono in closer, closer still. 

After all, they were mostly hidden by a column. And no one had been inside for so long. They could get away with it. He was almost sure.

But then Bono was reaching out a hand himself, not towards Edge, but to the bags. Specifically, the wrong bag, the one that Edge was certain held no scones, not even any fresh apples, though there was a bowl that could hold all of those things, if Morleigh made that choice. The bowl was hidden, though, and he knew Bono wouldn’t go looking for it. Why would he? It wasn’t really of interest to him, especially not when he saw what was covering it. 

It didn’t even occur to Edge to put a stop to it until Bono all but had his hand in the cookie jar, so to speak. And even then, he couldn’t find the drive to yell, to grab, push away, even throw out a simple utterance of, “Hey . . .can you not?” or something equally cool, calm and casual.

Like a fool, he just watched Bono open the bag and peer inside. He didn’t know why. Couldn’t begin to understand himself - and that was a feeling he had been caught with more and more recently - though, with the pretty images still playing in the background of his mind, Edge thought maybe, just maybe there was a chance he wanted this to happen. Get caught out. 

Though it was only a scarf. He could explain a scarf away, if he wanted to. Make up some bullshit excuse that would have Bono nodding as he shoved it back into the bag and went searching for the food. 

Or he could just come clean. It was only a scarf. “I bought it for you,” were words he had uttered to Bono many times over the years, and it had always resulted in a wide smile and shake of the head, _ you didn’t need to buy me anything _ , and never, not once had it ended with Bono jumping him. Tearing off his clothes. Leaning back, legs spread, eyes knowing, begging Edge to  _ draw him like one of his French girls _ , or whatever that goddamn line had been. Not even five years before. Not even then.

It was only a scarf.

It was so much more than a scarf.

“What’s this?” A slight frown marred Bono’s face as he pulled out the offending scarf. In the dull light, the blue didn’t seem quite as glorious, but Edge was barely looking at it anyway. His gaze was focused squarely elsewhere, and when Bono glanced up at him he could only shrug. 

“It’s a scarf.”

Bono rolled his eyes. “Well,  _ obviously _ .” He was clutching the scarf tightly, though, close to his chest now, staring down at it as though he knew. When he looked back up, his eyes were warm. He didn’t say anything else, and Edge knew he was waiting for more.

Again he shrugged. It seemed like all he could do sometimes. But when he opened his mouth, the words quickly tumbled out. “I bought it for you.”

Bono’s expression softened. “Really?”

Edge let out a short laugh, his eyes turning skyward. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so anxious and free at the same time before, and it was that sense of freedom that kept him talking, though he couldn’t quite bring himself to look Bono in the eye. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“It still is.”

It was more the tone than the words that forced his gaze back down. Bono stared back, throat bobbing, grip tightening against material that Edge knew was so soft it felt like a luxury, that would brush against Bono’s neck as gently as Edge wanted to sometimes; most times; so many times he had lost count. Maybe that’s why he had bought it. Maybe that’s why he, in part, regretted it.

“You didn’t need to buy me anything,” Bono said quietly, sounding like a broken record after all these years, but the way that he smiled told Edge that, yes, he did need to, and what’s more, he should do it more often. Buy more things, shiny things, beautiful things, and bring them to Bono just to make him smile like he was, right then and there as he brought the scarf up and around. It was stuffy and warm inside, but that didn’t matter. Still Bono looped it around his neck, artfully, crookedly, smiling a smile that matched it completely. “What do you think?”

It brought out his eyes. Edge knew that it would. Blue on blue, glorious even in the dull light. He wanted to reach out, and he did, saying, “It’s crooked,” like he needed an excuse to touch. “Let me just-”

Gently he adjusted the scarf, Bono’s smile straightening alongside it as he watched. There was that look in his eye that Edge couldn’t quite bring himself to glance at, one that always seemed too raw and real, that made his thoughts fracture so completely that he was left free to focus on one thing only, the same one thing he was trying to avoid. No, he couldn’t look up. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was too close, too real. Maybe he was a fool. But he just couldn’t do it.

As it was, he also couldn’t bring himself to pull his hand away. So there it lingered, for longer than society had deemed appropriate, close to Bono’s neck, fingers curled around material so soft it felt like a luxury. He could feel eyes burning into his skin, his fucking soul - as melodramatic as that was, and they were both fucking divas - but still he couldn’t force his hand away.

“Edge.” Bono’s voice sounded as though it was off far in the distance. His hand, though, was very much in the here and now. Warm and clammy against Edge’s, fingers exploring his knuckles, the webbing between his thumb and index finger.

In school, he had read in a heavy medical textbook that that area of the hand was known as the thenar space, and in the years since such information had proven to be so inconsequential that he had all but forgotten it. Now, it sprung to mind so quickly that he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. He wasn’t sure . . . 

The last of Bono’s fingers were stroking his thenar space, his gaze piercing. Stroking like he wanted attention, like he wanted more than attention, and Edge had never given much thought to that part of his hand, his thenar space -  _ read it out loud, David _ \- being an erogenous zone, and yet here they were.

Soon, too quickly but not quick enough for Edge’s peace of mind, the stroking stopped, giving way to the curling of fingers, the gentlest of tugs. There was barely a gap left to close, but they managed it anyway, his hand dragged until it was flush against Bono’s chest. A little to the left and they would be hand to hand against his heart.

Edge wondered if he realized.

Surely he had to.

Slowly, Edge breathed. It was all he could think to do. In and out, deeply, slowly, not matching the beating of Bono’s heart at all, nor his own, which was thumping away so quickly he half expected it to reach critical mass. And what a glorious way to go out that would be, tucked away in a French cathedral, holding hands with his best friend. It was too much. “Bono . . .” 

There was no end to that sentence, barely even a beginning, just a couple of syllables, let out in this breathy voice that he didn’t recognize, and that was all he had. Two syllables, one single thought, and a grip that tightened around his hand, rhythmically,  _ here, right here, I’m herelovehere, focus . . . _

He glanced up just as Bono shifted. Closer to him, expression serious, eyes inexplicable, a face that Edge almost recognized. 

He allowed his cheek to be kissed, a chaste touching of lips to skin, almost sweet in its shortness. “Oh,” Edge said blankly. A simple musing of a genius mind, he was sure.  _ Oh _ . He had nothing else. Not when Bono was still so close, clutching at his hand, breath warming his cheek. 

Just  _ oh _ .

Quietly Bono began to laugh, as if Edge had said something funny. Perhaps he had. It was a  chuckle that started low in his chest and stayed there, bringing out little puffs of air against Edge’s skin. Against where his lips had touched soft and warm. “Thank you,” Bono murmured, then, “Edge. Edge . . .” 

_ here, right here . . . _

It was the clench of his fingers that got him, a rhythm that drove straight on through until it could no longer be ignored, tightening, loosening, so close that Edge would be mad not to follow on through.

Bono’s expression was calm, his palm sweaty, and when Edge kissed him he was ready for it. Still, the air rushed from his nostrils, his grip loosening, and Edge’s hand in his hair brought forth a moan that was slow to start, quick to finish, and enough to bring Edge close to ruin. A hint of smoke cut through the sour taste of the day, the sweetness of something sugary that he couldn’t put a name to, and the overwhelming feel of Bono. It was something he knew, barely but intimately, and with it came the sound of waves, of footsteps in the distance. Chapped lips and an eager tongue, he knew this, he  _ knew  _ it, wanted it more, and he couldn’t quite get close enough; couldn’t get a tight enough grip, and then Bono was slipping away. Far away, a couple of inches, eyes wide and mouth gasping. 

The sight crushed Edge, through and through. It didn’t seem right to stop - how _dare_ Bono stop - but when he shifted forward, a hand came up. “Don’t,” Bono hissed, crushing Edge in an utterly different sort of way. 

“What-” But then he heard it: footsteps. More than one set, close to them, perhaps even coming closer still. It was hard to be sure, and, tucked away as they were, one could never quite predict where someone was going to snoop around next. And it wasn’t like they were nobodies, tucked away where they were, doing what they had. 

What they  _ had _ . Jesus. “Bono,” Edge let out, feeling a little desperate, and from the way Bono’s face changed it seemed he took the despair he had heard to be a sign of fear. Fear of getting caught. And maybe that was there a little - they were who they were, and even if they had stopped, still rumours could start so easily and swiftly - but mostly Edge was struck by the  _ other  _ thing. Bono’s lips were slightly reddened, in a way that no one would ever bother to take notice of. But Edge certainly did. It was all he could see. Wide eyes and red lips; a mouth that he had known. That he had kissed. 

It was insanity.

“Shh . . .” Bono held up a finger, ear cocked toward the exit. They listened, waiting. For the people to leave or come closer, whichever came first, and Edge had no idea what to do in either event. Perhaps sign a few autographs. Perhaps make their awkward little retreat. Perhaps wait until the footsteps were gone and pick up where they left off.

Or sit there and pretend as though nothing had even happened. 

He watched Bono watch for movement. Took in the line of his jaw, the curl of his fingers, the tuft of hair that was mussed from where Edge had taken it in hand. He wasn’t sure if he could pretend. 

Not this time.

Though he had thought that last time as well.

The footsteps continued, accompanied by a low murmur of voices that seemed to be getting closer. That were definitely getting closer. And closer.

Bono looked back at him, finger coming down. He pursed his lips, unsure for all of a second, and then he was up on his feet and beckoning Edge to follow. The sunglasses came out of his pocket, his stance seemed to change, and Edge was left standing next to another version of Bono entirely. “Grab your shit,” was all he said before he strode out from behind the column, and there was a confidence in his step that Edge had always admired, always been a little envious of, and sometimes even laughed at, just a little.

He felt none of those things this time round. He just watched himself be abandoned, and wondered how Bono did it; how he put on the mask at a time like this, the mask of a venerable rock star, when he didn’t even know if he were to be recognized. 

Though it made no matter, he was sure. Even if they didn’t know who Bono was, Edge was sure that, after all was said and done, the people behind the column would never forget him.

“Bonjour!” Bono’s voice echoed through the cathedral as though they were in the midst of a concert, nothing more. There were two surprised gasps, and then a flurry of giggles, and Edge couldn’t help the smile that appeared on his face, even as he stared down at the ground where they had been, barely a minute before. How quickly things changed. How quickly people could change.

He wasn’t sure if he could, but when he heard Bono drop his name amongst a string of stilted French, Edge knew that he had little choice.

He picked up his bags before stepping out into the open, a smile frozen to his face.

 


	12. The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *taps on mic* Uh, hi is this thing still on? PLEASE DON'T THROW ROTTEN FRUIT AT ME FOR TAKING SO LONG.
> 
> ...sorry this has taken so long. I didn't want it to. I wish I'd managed sooner. I've been feeling terribly low about not delivering sooner, and was even worried that this chapter was going to be too short for how long you guys have waited. But then I fleshed it out and made it longer, so I feel...kinda better. But still SO TERRIBLY SORRY. IS THERE ANYONE EVEN OUT THERE? OH NO.
> 
> So yeah. Um, here's a new chapter of Nexus! I'm sorry more doesn't happen in it, but, you know, the aftermath had to turn out like this. It might feel completely disjointed and all over the place, but then Edge is all over the place...homeboy is a complete and utter mess, and my god that is actually really hard to write! I hope it works. I hope it's not crap. God, I hope it makes sense and isn't crap.
> 
> I wrote the first third of this like two months ago and then left it, and it was interesting coming back in a different headspace and feeling more confident in my writing abilities. Because I was feeling a bit lost, hence why this chapter took as long as it did, and you have no idea how much better I feel having delivered SOMETHING for Nexus finally. So good. I only hope the actual chapter is good. But I'll stop ranting now. Be quiet, silly monkey, and let them read. I love all those who have stuck with me and continue to read. Your comments make my life that much better, and I appreciate them like you wouldn't believe. Thank xxx

 

 

Shit.

 _Shit_.

 

_shitshitshit_

 

It was the word of the day, it seemed. Rushing through Edge’s mind as it were, incessantly, dramatically, in tones that varied, that implied so much. He was on the verge of panic. And then he was fine. But was he, really? It was doubtful. It was extremely doubtful. Of course, with that realization came the word once more: _shit. Shit, shit._

There wasn’t much more that occupied his brain. To be fair, Edge doubted there was little brain left _to_ occupy. He was a lost cause, so, _so_ fucked, and where there should have been smarts to work his way out of such a predicament, instead there was one simple word, over and over, and the memory of the kiss.

He knew it was a mistake.

One kiss.

A new kiss.

Because there were, in their grand history, now two kisses. And with the kisses came the looks, warm with adoration, or heated, in anger or otherwise (somehow, it was always the otherwise that became a problem). They managed to burn a mark into his soul, and there they lingered so strongly that Edge doubted he would be ever rid of them.

He could picture them, so vividly he might even have been able to sketch Bono’s expressions from memory. Head tilted downward, looking coyly up through the lashes like he was Princess Di. That was a look that left a mark. Straight on, mouth curved into a smile, his eyes searching, knowing, laughing at him until he was stuttering to find a way to move past it. That was one of Bono’s favourites.

But there were so many others. So many ways to ruin Edge, slowly but surely, and that wasn’t even counting the before and after of that kiss. Those kisses, because there were two now, not to mention the varied how many that haunted his dreams. Naturally, there were differences between the before looks and the after, the way Bono first looked at him, wanting, and then knowing. Because at the end of it all, after the kisses when Edge had little else to give, Bono was left knowing his number, one hundred percent. All it took was one simple kiss, to know exactly what your partner was feeling. To sense the heart being put into it. The need.

Bono had to know. Just as Edge now knew. Oh, he was fucked alright. Completely and utterly, because a Bono with a clue was like a hunting dog picking up a scent: relentless. And it would be hard to throw him off the trail, but Edge knew he had to. He just had no idea exactly how. Because, after that kiss, he had little brain left to work with. All he was left with was _shit_.

It truly was the word of the day.

Somehow though, despite the limited amount of brain cells Edge had remaining, he managed to remember the goddamn milk.

There was a little shop on the outskirts of town that had what he needed, and little else. The man behind the counter seemed most disinterested in both Edge and life itself, sitting on his stool with one hand flicking through a magazine, the other casually outstretched in wait for the exchange of money if it so happened, and who cared if it didn’t, he could get by. He was the arrogant sort that gave France a bad reputation, the type that Edge didn’t especially care for, but in all his years of coming to the country, all his years of _living_ in the country, he could recall only a handful of his kind. Those snotty little people who thought themselves better than the rest of society.

Through his many travels, Edge had discovered that those types of people existed everywhere in the world, entitled and bratty, with not nearly enough charm to make such qualities endearing. And he knew a thing or two about entitled and bratty. He was more than well versed in those qualities, but Bono always managed to make up for it with a winning smile. Just like the one he had thrown Edge’s way as they left the cathedral. That same fucking smile.

 _Shit_.

That smile had disappeared quickly, though, and thank god for small mercies. Thank god for silences. Strange silences. Was it a strange silence? How could it not be, after—

After that. A kiss. A fucking kiss.

In a sacred building, no less, that’s where they’d decided such a thing would take place. Because if you were going to do something terrible, why not make it extra terrible to really ensure there was a place waiting for the two of them down below where it was nice and warm and the company was wicked as anyone. In a sacred building. When one of them was married, and the other close enough. Jesus Christ. Where had they gone wrong in life?

He could blame Bono. He could blame a whole slew of people. Larry for putting that sign up all those years ago. Bono’s parents for making such a charming little creature. The French. Shatner. He could blame Shatner, for sure. This trip had basically happened because of him.

Fucking Shatner.

To think, Edge could have been elsewhere, happy in his home without anything close to a kiss with Bono on the cards. He could have been thinking about proposing to Morleigh right now. The fucking ring—

But no. He was in France, with Bono still at his side after the two of them had done such a thing in such a sacred place. Bono, who had turned strangely silent. With his gaze locked firmly to the ground, and his arm wrapped tightly around himself. Was that normal? Was it?

He had known it wasn’t. What . . .

Edge couldn’t even think. He had nothing left.

After paying for the milk, and offering up a lackluster _merci_ that was not returned, he made his way out of the shop and back to the realities of life. Those wonderful realities that he had to deal with, at some point. Maybe. Perhaps. Though sweeping them under the rug had done wonders for the both of them up until now. Edge was quite confident in his ability to ignore and deny. He’d done so well with it up until now. He could write a book about it. Teach a course on the subject. Head back into the shop and loiter, for so long that Bono would get distracted and wander off. It was a winning plan, with only about twelve holes that Edge could see. But they were easy to ignore. Many things were easy to ignore, if you were committed enough.

Such a plan wasn’t written in the cards for him today, though, because as stupid as he was currently feeling, Edge still knew well enough how Bono would react. Sure he might get distracted—he often did—if there were enough shiny things in the world, but in the end he would just get bored of that too and come barrelling into the store with that look on his face. Which look? Edge wasn’t entirely sure. It might end up being accusing, or confused. Furious. Worried. Perhaps longsuffering, though Edge felt after all these years, such a look was something that he alone could lay claim to. And then, of course, there were those looks that created problems, and if Edge was struck with any of them so soon after such a brand new kiss, well he knew that he would just give up, and give in.

As it was, he figured it best to just walk out and face reality. It was the safest choice.

Outside he found Bono where he had left him, leaning up against the wall of the shop. He appeared cool, calm and collected now, in a way that almost seemed unreal.  Like he hadn’t a care in the world. And maybe he hadn’t. Maybe things were going the way he planned it. Who knew?

Edge did. He knew Bono, alright, knew well enough to look at the eyes. They were the window to his soul, the answer for all the questions being asked, for as guarded as Bono’s face could become, he could never hide his true feelings from his eyes.

Except that he could. He’d found the perfect way, and from barely two feet away, Edge still couldn’t make out a single thing behind those purple lenses.

It was fine, though. He was fine. Actually, he might even have been better than fine, because without being struck by that look in Bono’s eye, Edge could just go on pretending things were going just peachy. Like he hadn’t a care in the world. It was so easy to pretend, he was sure. And he figured, like it had that other time, the more time that passed between the kiss and the present, the easier it would be to just ignore it had even happened. Push it aside. Push away everything related to the kiss, all those feelings and distractions, and just forget about them entirely. It was doable. Everything in life was doable, if you tried hard enough. He just had to try. Trying was the first step to succeeding, he’d read somewhere once. Or had he just made that up? It didn’t sound made up, but then who even knew anymore? No, he did. It wasn’t made up, it wasn’t something he’d read—his mother had said it, so many times when he was young it had made an impression. And then he’d fucking forgot. What was the matter with him?

He was a living disaster. And when Bono glanced his way, his state of being seemed to worsen somehow. Quite dramatically.

With a chuckle that was bordering on desperate, he held up the milk and asked, “Got milk?”

It was one of the lamer things he had come out with recently, made worse by the fact that his heart wasn’t in it, and his brain was flashing all sorts of warning signs. But Edge had nothing else to offer. Not yet. Still, standing all of two feet apart did leave him with half a mind to press Bono further into that wall. Finish what they started. Such _constructive_ thoughts were going to be the ruin of him, Edge was sure. He could ignore them. He was completely capable.

Bono wore a thin smile as he pushed away from the wall. The scarf had been unravelled from his neck while Edge had been inside, but instead of shoving it back into the bag, Bono had hung it over his shoulder, wearing it loose and proud, as though he had been awarded it for some great feat. _Look at what I represent_ , the scarf said to Edge. _Look. Are you looking, you piece of shit?_

Looking at the scarf now, Edge saw it in a different light. Where it had once appeared glorious, now it seemed. . . could a scarf be thought of as being a bit of a bastard? It seemed ridiculous, but then what wasn’t these days? _Bastard_ was the only word that sprung to mind. How much easier would life feel if he could regret ever buying the thing? He wished he could. Of course he did—look at what it had brought upon them—but he couldn’t.

He just couldn’t. Look at what it had brought upon them.

There were always two different ways of viewing a situation. And depending on how he felt, (and with his emotions going back and forth on the subject so rapidly he was lost knowing where he truly landed) that was either a bad thing, very bad and they should both be punished, or a deliciously good thing—though it was probable that they should be punished nonetheless.

Away from Bono’s side, he’d known it was a mistake. One that he could barely justify—though a part of him wanted to, God, how it did. But now, standing by Bono’s side, Edge was at a loss. How simple it had been to brush of a mistake when he wasn’t looking it in the face.

With his gaze fixed firmly back to the ground, Bono asked, “You ready then?” before brushing past Edge as he started towards the car. For a moment Edge just stood there, staring after him.

Was that how it was going to be? Seriously? Was that how he was going to be—full of all that wonderful attitude that Bono knew, perhaps better than anyone on the goddamn planet, how to utilize to its full potential? It didn’t seem right. He didn’t really have a leg to stand on. Yes, Edge had been the one to kiss him, but when Bono had given him a million reasons to do so, when he had been practically begging for it, it seemed ridiculous to play the blame game and get pissy about such things. Though perhaps he was reading Bono wrong. Perhaps he was projecting. “Edge! Are you _coming_?”

Perhaps not.

Neither of them spoke during the walk back to the car. That fact alone was enough to make the journey agonizing, though the two of them had always done silence well—those easy silences that were as comforting as clean sheets on a bed after a long day.

There was nothing easy about this silence though, nor was the sun beating down upon them making life any better, or that lingering uneasiness at the base of Edge’s neck, and the stirrings of trepidation deep within his belly. Each step they took only proved to frustrate him. Against the gravel there was a deep crunch that rattled through his brain. Against the grass it seemed like they were getting nowhere, as though some magical being had played a trick on them and they were, in fact, walking backwards. It almost seemed plausible. And against the side of the road Bono furthered the distance between them, letting out a sigh when the car came into their line of vision.

It didn’t seem like a sigh Edge was meant to hear. It sounded more like something that Bono was trying to keep to himself, one of those secret little noises that slipped out when people just couldn’t take it any longer. When they could no longer hold in what they were feeling. It had to come out somehow, every and any sort of emotion a person could feel, and with Bono it did—often, though he was rarely shy about it. No, he wasn’t the type to hide his noises, whether they were happy, sad or otherwise, and for that reason Edge knew well enough to place such a sigh among the spectrum of human emotions. He knew Bono. He knew his sounds, knew when he was being sneaky. It was relief that Edge had heard in that sigh, and upon realizing that he figured he was well within his rights to feel a bit fucked off.

Less than an hour ago they had been kissing for Christ’s sake, and now Bono was relieved at the sight of the car?

Of course. Getting into the car would be one step closer to arriving back to the cottage and away from Edge’s side. He knew Bono. It would be hide away and dwell, or hide away until he could pretend like everything was just fine, nothing had happened, and certainly nothing had changed. It was how the morning after that first kiss had gone.

A sleepless night for Edge, bogged down by so much uncertainty that it made him want to scream, to climb out of bed and find the problem child in his own bed, push him down against the mattress and ask him plainly, “now what was that, exactly?” because he hadn’t known then and he didn’t know still. But that hadn’t happened. He’d just stayed in his bed, staring at the window until the room turned to grey. It had been an effort to slink downstairs, but he’d eventually done it, and for that he should have been fucking awarded. Uncertainty breeds fear, but still he’d made it down, and after two cups of coffee company had found him.

He could still see Bono’s face that morning. His smile had been something else, one that was rarely shone Edge’s way. No, it was a smile reserved for a whole list of people—journalists, politicians, strangers—one that he knew only from television and perhaps three other times. Early on. Very early on. Fake and yet not, big enough to distract from the look in his eyes, but Edge still knew exactly where to look.

Bono had fixed his gaze to a point approximately three inches away from Edge’s eye line, and the delicate skin of his lids had blushed a purply red. It had been wrong. It had all been wrong, but eventually it had also been forgotten. The both of them had made sure of that, but that morning Bono had led the way.

They were doomed to head down that same path. Edge was sure of it now. Because why else would Bono be so eager to escape him? Sighing. With _relief_. It was bullshit. It was complete fucking bullshit. If the past five years had taught Edge anything, it was that you could only sweep something under the rug for so long before it started hatching an escape plan. To do the same thing now would be completely idiotic, and Bono wasn’t an idiot. He had to know how things would go. And it wasn’t like Edge wanted the whole thing to be acknowledged so that they could dive back in and make a few more mistakes—because that’s what it was, a goddamn mistake—no, he just wanted to talk things through. Get it out into the open, make sure they had the same mindset, that they were on the same path, the _right_ path, and call it out for what it was, so that there was no more uncertainty. Talk it through like grown-ups, so that they could see the warning signs if and when it ever came close to happening again, and slam both feet on the brakes.

If they did all that and made it through, in time it might even go away. In time they would be fine. They always were. They’d survived for this long, after all. Nothing could break them, as long as they were open and didn’t bottle up such ridiculous and damning things. As long as they just fucking talked it through.

But there Bono was, pulling away from him. Shuffling his feet as the sun bore down, off to the side and straight on towards the car, as silent as he’d ever been. They weren’t going to talk. They were so far away from talking, and Bono seemed content to keep it that way. If he was trying to shape Edge into getting an attitude, then he was fucking succeeding. If Bono didn’t want to talk then that was just fine. Two could play at that game. Edge wouldn’t talk either. The two of them could just carry out the rest of the day in silence, as though nothing had happened and yet everything was wrong, stewing over all of life’s problems until one of them had to break.

And that person sure as hell wasn’t going to be Edge. He was well versed in staying quiet. After all, when Bono talked enough for the both of them, for the entire group even, why did Edge ever need to talk at all? Best to just stay quiet and take everything in. Keep to himself until he was needed. He’d had plenty of practice. It was as though he had been training for such a day his entire life.

Bono wouldn’t last half the fucking day. He could do stormy silences, but only for so long. Soon enough, he was bound to turn into a hurricane. And when he did, maybe they could finally sort out their goddamn lives. Until then, silence was golden. Edge was fine with it. Completely fine.

And anyway, it hadn’t even been that good of a kiss. Definitely not worth all the drama. Perfectly average, in fact.

Who was he kidding? Who was he even kidding? Alright, nothing was really worth so much drama, but that kiss—both kisses—had been—

No, he wasn’t thinking about it. He was mad. He was a man with an attitude, watching his best friend distance himself, ready to scream. It didn’t matter that the kiss had been good. More than good. It had been something, alright, but it didn’t matter. And he wasn’t thinking about it. He just wasn’t. Because it was wrong. So wrong. The entire situation was wrong. Was he angry about that? Give him time and he might even start to fume. Time, and a reason to overreact. God willing, he could and would create a scene.

 

_Just fucking try me._

 

It was strange how time worked. To Edge, it felt as though both three minutes and three months had passed since they had left the cathedral, and yet neither time frames were accurate. The feel of Bono’s hair between his fingers lingered. The taste of smoke. The sound Bono had made as they kissed, not a sigh, but still close to relief. _Relief_.

It was all there, painted in his brain in the most vibrant of colours, threatening to burst out into the open. He could picture it, feel it, so well that it seemed ridiculous to think that even the smallest chunk of time had passed. And yet, from the way that Edge was feeling, it seemed possible that he had aged terribly in the time since the cathedral. That couldn’t have happened in three minutes. That barely could have happened in three months. It was clear that time was hinky in so many ways, and he just wasn’t having it. Another thing to put on his shit list.

Why couldn’t life just be _normal_?

He knew why. And the reason for it all had finally reached the car he had been yearning for. It wasn’t quite a smile that graced Bono’s face as he reached for the door handle. It wasn’t really anything, in fact. Just a strange expression that Edge had no label for. Strange. That was Bono. Frustrating and strange, and a complete pain in his ass. Trying to open a car door as though the keys had magically leaped from Edge’s pocket to be utilized without either of them noticing.

For some _baffling_ reason, Bono’s attempt at opening the door was not successful. His confusion was almost funny, and maybe Edge might have laughed on any other day. But given the mood he had found himself in, he was more tempted to throw some words Bono’s way—words that weren’t exactly complimentary. Somehow, _dumbass_ found itself on the tip of his tongue. It was an effort, but he managed to bite it back, and when Bono glanced his way for the first time in what felt like an age, Edge just shook his head, reached into his pocket and pressed the remote. He expected nothing, and when Bono ducked his head and threw out a genuine _thanks_ , Edge nearly lost all self-composure.

The feeling only lasted a moment, and then he was right back to where he had been. But as he stood there, watching Bono climb into the car so eagerly it might very well have been his final refuge, Edge couldn’t help but feel a little lost.

They had fucked up. They had really fucked up.

A sigh escaped his lips, and it felt earned. He felt a little stupid, standing by the side of the road with a couple of bags weighing him down, staring at the damn car. A car that his best friend was sitting in, hiding away, probably enjoying those blessed moments where there wasn’t a constant reminder at his side. Yes, _that_ sigh had been more than earned.

He put the bags in the boot, then stood there for a moment longer in the heat, looking down the road they had just walked. It wasn’t a big town, but still Uzès had managed to make a gigantic impression on both their lives. That goddamn cathedral. That piece of shit town. This fucking country. Edge had to blame something for all their problems, and he knew that he could only blame Bono for so much before it felt misguided.

But the cathedral had been beautiful. The town more of the same. And he loved this fucking country. It was a home. He couldn’t hate a home. And he certainly couldn’t hate Bono. There were many things that made a home. The company he kept played a big part in that. Some more than others.

Bono felt like home because he was, in part. And right now, that kind of pissed Edge off.

Another sigh escaped, and then he was cracking his neck, jerking his head side to side to feel some blessed relief, before rubbing where it still felt off. Just another problem to add to the pile, he supposed. Just one more thing.

He shook his head before reaching for the door handle.

It took them fourteen minutes to drive to the cottage, and they did it in near-silence—no wind whistling in through a cracked-down window, and talking? If Edge had a Magic-8 Ball, _outlook not so good_ would be the only thing that appeared upon shaking. Hell, he could barely bring himself to breathe loudly, how could he think to talk? Not that he wanted to. No, talking was definitely not on the cards. And it wasn’t because he was being unreasonable, or crazy, because he was neither of those things. He was just fine, completely and utterly, though there was only so much he could take before something—any little thing—pushed him clear over the edge. What would happen then? Edge wasn’t entirely sure, but he had a feeling they might soon find out.

The grass that they were winding through was so green it almost looked fake, the sky a clear blue. It was as though they were stuck in a photograph, the sort that would later be blown up and made into a poster, destined to hang on the wall of a travel agent somewhere around the world. He knew the type. He’d seen it before, though why anyone needed to advertise France was beyond him. If such posters were adorned with slogans telling people _fuck off, you’re not welcome in our gorgeous country, no matter how much you want to,_ tourists would still happily flock to come and stay where the grass was impossibly green and the sky picture blue, and if they were lucky— _so_ fucking lucky—they might even spy a rockstar and his hapless guitarist driving along one of those winding roads. Not talking. Just driving. For a whole fourteen minutes, apparently, though to Edge it was starting to feel more like fourteen hours. Hapless was a good label to adorn himself with, considering what he was stuck with in that goddamn car.

Throughout the entire drive, Edge couldn’t help but be keenly aware of every move that Bono made, which, for such an apparently _short_ drive, was a remarkable amount even for someone as restless as he was. Though remarkable wasn’t exactly the word that came to mind. Annoying seemed closer to the mark, but even that didn’t seem enough to express Edge’s frustration eloquently. A few short sentences, all starting and beginning with a swear-word might have been taking it too far, but when Bono reached for the radio for what felt like the fifth time, before thinking better of it and drawing back, Edge felt as though such passionate thoughts were well-warranted.

There was normal fidgety, and then there was Bono stuck in a situation that he had no idea how to handle. But even that didn’t seem right, because Edge had seen Bono in such situations before, and he’d never quite been so fucking annoying in such a short amount of time. And sure, there might have been a chance that maybe, just maybe, Edge’s state of mind leading into the car trip might have made him a bit more. . . pricklier than usual. In time he might even look back at it and laugh, or even better, they might laugh at it together. But as it was, either Bono would settle down and spend the last few minutes of the drive sitting like a normal person, or Edge would lose his shit and make him walk the rest of the way.

It would probably be a while yet before they could look back on that and laugh.

Luckily for Bono (and that nice, decent side of Edge who, whenever Bono was concerned, felt guilt for future actions that may or may not even eventuate) he seemed to pick up on the energy inside the car, and although he didn’t settle down completely, it was still close enough to become tolerable. Edge sent a silent prayer towards the good Lord, giving thanks for small mercies, and gripped the steering wheel tighter when the lack of distraction allowed certain thoughts to come back front and centre in his brain.

 

_Edge. Edge . . ._

 

“Shit.”

He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. In fact, he barely realized it had been more than a thought in his mind, until Bono turned in his seat and stared. There wasn’t a single thing Edge could come up with to justify his utterance, and no question was asked. Bono just kept on watching him, not even trying to hide it or pretend he was doing anything but. It was hard to keep from turning and acknowledging such a look, and on any other day Edge would have met him halfway. As it was, he felt like a prick for keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the road, knuckles turning white from the effort it took. Pretending as though Bono’s gaze wasn’t burning a hole in the side of his head.

Barely an hour had passed since Bono had created a rhythm while holding Edge’s hand, since he’d eagerly allowed himself to be kissed. The aftermath just wasn’t right. And yes Bono had been the one to start the silence, but at least he could still look to Edge as though he wasn’t ashamed.

It was stupid. It was completely fucking stupid, and yet there was still anger stewing deep within Edge’s belly. He was a prick. He was such a prick. What could he say? Right now, he really had no idea. But it felt as though someone should say something. He should. He had to.

He couldn’t. The words just didn’t come, and even if they had it was likely they might have been tinged with bitterness. For that reason he figured he could justify just staying quiet, because he was pissed, yes, but there was that little voice in the back of his mind telling him he had no right to be bitter about it. Taking on such a tone might just make matters worse, so it was best to just keep on as they were until one of them latched onto a shred of sanity. Though he wasn’t crazy. No, he was of a sound mind. Still, when Bono continued to watch him for a while longer, it was hard not to feel wrong about his choices. And when Bono finally gave up on him and lurched forward in his seat to flick on the radio, it was tempting to give in to that guilty side of him that was threatening to take over.

It wasn’t like he had meant to glance over, since such an action severely interfered with his keep calm and focus on the road strategy. But it was hard to ignore movements as sudden as Bono had just made when the human mind was programmed to react to them. And once his gaze was drawn away from the road Edge found it hard to concentrate on little else but the way Bono’s hand shook as he reached for the radio.

He kept looking. God help him, he had to look. He might even have stared had he not been driving. Sometimes, Edge just couldn’t help himself, especially when Bono was concerned. He might have been pissed, but he still was only human. Destined to make mistakes, to fuck up again and again and still consider his actions progress, that was Edge. Through and through.

As it turned out, there was little to look at for long. He spied the way Bono’s hand shook, and he even managed to catch the fleeting look on Bono’s face before it was turned away from him. But it wasn’t just the face. It was all of him, shuffling in his seat until his knees were bumping against the door, until he could hide away, maybe not from the world, but at least from the one that he knew would keep trying to see, now that the flood gates had been opened. Now that Edge had looked once, he would keep looking. It was inevitable. And Bono wasn’t having it, but Edge still looked. Keeping one eye on the road, he took in the small shape at his side that was Bono—and small he was, turning in on himself the longer Edge looked.

It was a funny thing about Bono. He had never claimed to be a tall man, but Edge had rarely thought of him as being small. On stage sometimes he seemed at least ten feet tall, such was his energy, the power of his voice, the power of him, period. And off stage it was more of the same, but as Edge looked at him there in the car, turned towards the door with his arm tucked tightly around him, he looked his true size. Smaller even. He was shrinking away, and there was a question on Edge’s lips that he just couldn’t bring himself to ask. But when Bono started to breathe quicker it felt more pressing. And when Bono’s breath caught, hitched, and refused to even out, Edge knew he had to do something. This wasn’t right. There was something wrong. Fuck his anger for now, fuck everything, there was something seriously wrong.

“Bono.”

“I’m fine.”

“No—”

“I said I’m fine,” Bono snapped, “so fucking _leave_ it.”

“. . . Bono—”

“Fucking hell, _what_?”

“Jesus, I’m sorry I asked,” Edge hissed, gripping the wheel until he was almost confident he’d leave permanent impressions. To think, he was concerned about Bono. To think he’d let go of his anger. What a ridiculous notion. What a fucking ridiculous notion, not being angry any more. “I mean, it’s not always about you, Bono, though sometimes I fucking wonder.” He spared a quick glance Bono’s way, to gauge how much damage such words had done, but Bono hadn’t turned from the window. Shaking his head, Edge repeated, “Sometimes I wonder,” his voice so low it had barely been worth the effort.

It had been heard, though. He was sure of it. And once it was out in the open Edge felt some of his anger just dissipate, leaving him feeling worn and a little shell-shocked. There might have been guilt there too. He couldn’t quite be sure of it, or rather he couldn’t quite bring himself to own up to it. But it lingered there, in the back of his mind until Bono made that sound once more—a short, catching breath that shuddered on the outset.

He didn’t think Bono was crying. Actually, Edge was positive he wasn’t. But that didn’t mean things were fine. He knew they weren’t. There was something wrong. Something he didn’t know how to fix, that he’d made worse by yelling.

No. He’d not just made it worse. He’d made it, period. Hadn’t he? Was this his fault?

Perhaps. And instead of helping, he was hindering it further. He could do something. He could do so much, make it alright, make Bono alright, make the two of them sort things through until they could come to terms with what they’d done and deal with it.

But no. That would be the smart thing to do. And today, Edge was not smart.

It was guilt he’d been feeling, but somehow he managed to push that all aside, for now, and just kept driving. It wasn’t right—it wasn’t him—but he wasn’t sure what else he could do, not in the car. Not when Bono was so small beside him. Not when Edge was so close himself to breaking down.

When they finally arrived back at the cottage Bono didn’t seem in a rush to leave the car. He barely even moved, and briefly Edge wondered if he’d fallen asleep. But then his hand shifted, making its way back and forth along his thigh, his throat clicking as he swallowed hard. He was awake. He just wasn’t moving.

It didn’t seem right to just leave him in the car, but Edge wasn’t sure what else to do. He could ask if Bono was okay, and get snapped at and shut down again. He could do a lot of things, but none of the thoughts that sprung to mind seemed like a good idea.

In the end he just opened his door and left Bono where he was.

Of course, as soon as the car door closed behind him Edge was hit with a wave of regret (or was it guilt? of course it was) and when he glanced back through the window—because God help him, he had to look—the sight of Bono slumped in his seat left him feeling approximately two inches tall. He was a prick. He was scum. He wasn’t even sure if he was angry anymore. He wasn’t really anything—nothing he could put a label on anyway.

But given the way his heart was thumping in his chest, and how his stomach tightened when any thought relating to Bono came to mind, Edge figured there had to be something going on there in his subconscious. Maybe it was anger still. Or maybe he was having a medical episode. Both seemed plausible, and he was sweating too much to blame it all on the heat, so maybe he was dying. Which, on such a day, might have been a blessing in disguise.

At least death would get him away from the hell that was their current situation.

It was only after Edge had started gathering the bags from the boot that Bono emerged, but instead of going straight on towards the front door he headed to the back of the car. The move was unexpected, the half-smile that appeared on his face even more so. It might have been forced but it still was there, and Edge didn’t know how to handle it. Even a fake smile brought him right back to the cathedral. He didn’t want to think of that, not right now. It was too hard. It was all too fucking hard.

“Do you want me to carry anything?” Bono asked just before the awkward silence between them could reach critical mass. When had they become these people? “I could—”

“I got it.” Edge nodded towards the scarf that still hung on Bono’s person. “You’ve got enough. . .” he trailed off, shaking his head as he started towards the cottage. He’d meant to end that sentence with _baggage_ , though he had no idea why exactly. It might have been true, sure, but why Edge had felt the need to almost say it was not something he could figure. Though his tone had come out snarky, and he had felt snarky saying it, so there was a chance that, deep down, he was just a little bitch. And he had no right to be. No right. “Can you close—”

Bono clapped back with a faintly derisive, “I got it,” before slamming the boot shut, and although Edge couldn’t quite bring himself to glance backwards, he felt the glare burning his way all the same. At least he figured it was a glare. It was hard to know sometimes, given how intense Bono’s gaze could be. Even the most innocent of his looks still held some heat. But as it was, Edge half-figured he deserved a glare, so that’s what it had to be. And considering that—considering everything, really—life inside of the cottage was going to be just as agonizing as life outside of the cottage. Likely more so.

At least outside Edge could run and hide among nature. Inside . . . well, he could do exactly that still, but with the added dramatic of a slamming front door. Unless he went out back. He could go out back. Or he could go upstairs and lock himself in the bathroom, like some kind of dramatic diva—that is, if he got to the bathroom before Bono did. Because really, there was only one diva currently staying under that roof, and it sure as hell wasn’t Edge. He might have had his moments, yes, many of them quite recently, but he’d spent more than half of his life at Bono’s side. Considering some of the shit he’d seen as a right-hand man, Edge was confident that his behaviour was _juuust_ fine.

Not that Bono was really that bad. Because he wasn’t. Sometimes he was even downright humble. Most times. Nearly all of the time. Too much time spent around spoiled supermodels and the Hollywood elite had shown Edge exactly what a diva really looked like. Compared to all that, Bono was an angel. He was. He really was. And Edge was definitely a fucking prick, because, as he awkwardly opened the front door while juggling his baggage, still a part of him was out of sorts with the man at his side. Perhaps that part of him was even considering stepping back outside and waiting for the heat to combust him, because as it was, burning to death might have been preferable to the agony that was the conversation he and Bono were going to eventually have, as soon as one of them found their balls and started talking.

Who was the diva? Maybe it was time to rethink his previous answer and start leaning towards the guy who was contemplating setting himself on fire.

It did seem a bit insane. But was it really any crazier than some of the thoughts he’d been having recently? Was it any crazier than some of the _things_ he’d been doing recently? _Yes Bono, I’ll climb up that ladder and then blatantly lie to you in a way that you could disprove in a fucking second. Yes Bono, I’ll slowly lose my mind over you as you strut around the house in the goddamn way that you do. And yes Bono, I’ll make out with you in a place of worship then proceed to treat you like shit, though hear me out on that one, because you’ve given me a shitload of reasons to do so. . . I think. Unless I’m projecting. Am I projecting?_

“Edge.”

Only after blinking back to reality did Edge realize Bono was standing in front of him, looking about as hesitant as he ever had.

It didn’t seem right, seeing him like that. Neither of them seemed right, and if ever was there a time to open his mouth and say something reassuring, or strange, or even start to rant and rave, because at least that would be _something_ , Edge knew that now was it. He even opened his mouth to do it. Because he could. Do it.

He could do anything, he’d been told, over and over for as long as he could remember. By Bono. One night after a few drinks too many Edge had almost been convinced that he could move mountains, just because the notion had been whispered into his ear. He could do anything. He could fix this. He could push Bono against the wall and finish what they started. Or he could cry. He could go upstairs and call Morleigh up on the phone, beg forgiveness for something that she could never know about. Because if she did find out. . .

It wasn’t just their lives. It was so much bigger than the two of them.

It was too fucking big, and that simple thought was enough to make his mouth snap shut, to tighten his chest as panic rapidly seeped in.

Not knowing what else to do, but knowing sure as anything that he couldn’t look at Bono’s expression for a second longer, Edge cleared his throat, sounding more strangled cat than human, then turned away and started toward the kitchen. There was food to be put away. In this heat milk could spoil so quickly, after all. Best to get it all put away, and fast. The sooner it was taken care of, the sooner he could call Morleigh. He needed to hear her voice, perhaps more than he ever had. He was drowning without it, and if thinking so dramatically made him a diva, well then Edge was a fucking diva. He could live with that. It was one thing that he could actually live with.

To his dismay, Bono decided to follow him into the kitchen. It wasn’t what either of them needed. No, what they needed was some distance. Time to think things through, to reconsider and re-evaluate their life choices, so that they could meet halfway and find some middle ground. In twenty years they might even laugh about the whole thing.

Bono was always good for a _remember when. . . ?_ story, especially when they were of the humdinger variety. Which this one would be, in twenty years or so. _Remember when we kissed that one time and almost ruined the wonderful lives we had going for us?_ Bono might say in twenty years or so. _Can you imagine what would have happened if we’d given in to temptation? Can you even fucking imagine, Edge? I mean, thank god we didn’t, because look at us now. Our wives are still happily by our sides, and there’s not a lick of tension between us. None whatsoever._

It was official: Edge had lost his mind.

He really needed to talk to Morleigh. He really needed Bono to just leave. But before either of those things could happen, he had to deal with some perishables, as he certainly wasn’t making another trip just because the milk had gone bad.

The bags had grown heavy again, forcing him to let out an _oof_ upon dumping them down onto the counter. It was a strange sound, one that deserved some snide comment from the company he often kept, but he received nothing but continued silence from Bono’s end. Stupidly, Edge waited for it, hesitating a moment too long. He wasn’t sure why, and really, he had no right to be hurt by the silence, given the past hour or so. There was no justifiable reason for any of his actions or emotions, and yet. . .

He had never really been good at ignoring Bono when they were in a room together. Sure, he might have given the impression that he was, but between the two of them, they both knew where at least half of his attention had turned towards. Usually, though, Bono was either loud enough or determined enough that Edge couldn’t not notice him. But in the kitchen it was a different story entirely. He wasn’t loud or determined, instead he just hung back by the door still with that look on his face—and Jesus, he was still wearing that fucking scarf over his shoulder—as Edge started to put away the groceries, which gave them both room to breathe. And made it easy to ignore him. Mostly.

It was hard, when he was right there. It was really fucking hard.

But at the very least Edge figured he was giving off the perfect illusion of ignoring Bono, and that might have been enough, as terrible as it sounded. As terrible as it made Edge feel. He should have said something by now. He should have said something in the car. He should have said so much. What was the matter with him? This wasn’t him. He might have been overwhelmed and a bit worked up, with a figurative and literal pain in the neck. He might have been worn down by the heat, by the day they’d already had, and most of all by the strain of whatever the hell had been going on these past few days, but still.

This wasn’t him.

With a sigh he turned to face the music, but Bono got there first, his voice quiet as he asked, “Is this how it’s going to be then?”

It wasn’t a question Edge was prepared to answer, but that didn’t stop his mouth from running without his brain. The _yes_ flew from his lips, too quickly and sounding far too forceful, and although he managed to then catch himself it seemed the damage had already been done. As it was he still didn’t know what he wanted to say, but there was little else he could add that would be worse. “No—I don’t know, alright?” It wasn’t worse, but it still wasn’t enough, and the silence that followed left him more than a little uneasy. He couldn’t quite bring himself to meet Bono’s eye. Maybe he didn’t deserve to. It was a disaster. The entire trip was a disaster, and he was the root cause of it all. Something more had to be said, and quick, but Edge had nothing. He still tried. “Bono, look—”

“You don’t know,” Bono said flatly. “That’s all you’re giving me to work with? You don’t _know_?”

“What do you want me to say, Bono? We made a mistake, okay? You know it, I know it, so just—”

Edge cut himself off without knowing exactly how that sentence was meant to finish. He’d not even meant to say any of it at all. No, there were other things he’d wanted to say in place, but couldn’t seem to connect his brain to his mouth. Instead, he ended up with words coming from somewhere deep inside, a place that he knew nothing about. They had sounded borderline vicious to his ears, cutting through the air so sharply that there was no way in hell they’d not made a permanent impression. He could only imagine what they had sounded like to Bono.

Vicious. There was nothing else that it could possibly have sounded like than what it actually was, and as he watched Bono’s face fall further the wave of regret that came forth turned his stomach so quickly that, for a moment, Edge feared he might vomit. It wasn’t just regret for what he had said. No, there was so much to be sorry for that it was hard to know what was truly the worst of it.

The silence that hung in the air felt like a punishment, and he didn’t know how to break it. Either the situation got worse or it got better. Those were the only two outcomes that he could see, and considering the look being thrown his way, Edge had a feeling that, no matter what, anything he said would lead them straight on towards the darker path. That look was enough to cut right on through him, and he wanted to turn away. God, he wanted to turn away so badly, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do so. He couldn’t do that to Bono. He’d done enough already.

The darker path might have been on the cards, but Edge still knew he had to try. To say something. Maybe there was a way to diffuse the situation, without putting his foot in it further and blowing the whole thing straight towards epic proportions. After all, he and Bono weren’t strangers to the art of bickering—there had even been a few tiffs where bloodshed had seemed like a grand idea—and yet they always made it through relatively unscathed. They’d done it before, they could do it again. They could make it through this, Edge was sure of it. He just had to take the first step. If only he could figure out _how._

No, it didn’t matter how. Trying was the first step to succeeding, his mum had always said. Try, and the rest would come organically. He hoped.

“Bono, look,” was all he managed to get out before Bono came alive, so suddenly and with enough fire in his glare that it didn’t seem _that_ mad to wonder if he’d been possessed.

But no, it was just Bono—either roused by Edge’s voice or that special brand of grief and fury that was forever simmering just below his surface—seeing red, taking a half-step forward before aborting any wild plan he might have had. “A _mistake_?”

He was often good at lashing out while upset, whether it be he was angry, frustrated or so distressed he had no other option, and Edge figured that had almost been on the cards before Bono had caught himself. And it might have been warranted. Maybe a thump was deserved, or a shove at the very least. But nothing of the sort happened. Instead of being balled into a fist Bono’s fingers went loose, running through his hair so haphazardly that when he did speak again, Edge was ready for the way his voice shook. He wasn’t ready for how it made his chest clench. “Is that really what you’re saying to me? Is that—we made a mistake, and that’s it, that’s all there is to it?”

“No, wait—”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Bono said, “Fucking hell, Edge,” before drawing in on himself, his left arm tightening around his midsection, right arm loose, left without a purpose, at his side. His face—his fucking face—with _that_ expression on it made Edge want to drop to his knees and beg, to do whatever it took to make Bono smile again, to making him forget that there was ever such a day like the one they were stuck in. But before Edge could do any of the sort, before he could even move, Bono was turning towards the door. He was going to storm away. Out of the kitchen and up the stairs, or out the front door and into the car, and directionless him was bound to get his foolish ass lost, especially in such a state.

It wouldn’t do.

Reaching out a hand, Edge managed to just catch his arm. The look Bono threw back was enough to make him pause, if only for a second. “Bono, don’t go, alright? Let’s just talk about this.”

“I was trying to,” Bono shot back,” but what’s the point?” He didn’t pull away though, and as he lingered in the doorway a look came upon his face, one that Edge barely knew. He still understood it. He could read Bono, read him by just looking into his eyes. _One last chance,_ Bono’s eyes were saying. _Impress me, Edge, or I’m out of here._

And Edge scrambled for a solution, he did, desperately he did, but in the end all he could think to say was, “I don’t know. . . I don’t know what to say to you right now, alright?”

He really was a fuck-up.

Bono’s jaw tightened, but a smile appeared on his face nonetheless, small and bitter. When he went to pull his arm away Edge didn’t try to resist. To do so would just be asking for trouble. “When you do figure it out,” Bono rushed out, “why don’t you come and find me so we can handle it like fucking _adults_ , Edge.” That said, he turned again and left the room.

Unsure of what else to do, Edge stood stock-still and listened to Bono’s footsteps, and was faintly surprised to hear the backdoor open. The footsteps slowly faded, and Edge was left in silence. At least he knew where Bono was headed. That was something. If nothing else, Edge knew where to find him. And he would. He would go and find him, he knew. But later.

Give him time, give them both time to think things through. It was the smartest approach. And they were smart, they were. Smart enough to make good life choices. Edge was almost sure of it.

 

_Shit._

 

It truly was the word of the day.


	13. Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this has taken so long. And I'm sorry this chapter is so damn long. And rambly. And IDK, I hope it's worth the wait to all you few who are still reading. I love you all

The aftermath of an argument was always a curious thing. Sometimes, the anger continued—for hours, for days, or, depending on how well a person could hold a grudge, for what felt like a goddamn eternity—while other times, it just slipped away like a silk dressing gown moments before a person stepped towards their eager lover. Edge had ever worn a silk dressing gown before, but he had been cast in the role of eager lover a few times, and thus knew how quickly and easily silk fell from bare skin to the floor. Where it would forgotten for a time, until it was next needed.

Eventually, there would again come a time when he would be forced to pick up his anger towards Bono, find it there on the carpet where it had been abandoned, and slip it back on for another round of _I honestly cannot fucking believe you sometimes, B!_ It was just what they did occasionally, though it never lasted long. Bono knew a lot of things, but he’d never quite grasped the ins and outs of holding a grudge. And Edge? Well, he just didn’t have the stamina for such needless distractions.

He had been angry. Following that, he’d slipped into confusion. What had then ensued was approximately two hundreds seconds of the closest thing he’d had to mentally breaking for quite some time. What was the matter with him? So much, obviously. But seriously, _what was wrong with him?_

It could take days to figure out the real answer to that question. Weeks, even. Perhaps he never would find out, forever doomed to questioning each and every bizarre action he made for the rest of his life, especially those related to Bono—of which he knew, without a doubt, there would be _sofuckingmany_ , because this shit? It wasn’t going anywhere. Not a chance in hell. There was only so much ignoring they could do before it, that _whateveritwas_ between them, came a-waltzin’ back into the lives in another few years, knocking on their respective doors with a smile on its face and _that_ question on its lips:

_Remember me?_

And naturally that one simple question would open a whole can of worms, leading to the loss of Edge’s sanity once more—if it ever came back—and Bono playing his own messy role, where he was always one part delicate, two parts alluring, and about twelve parts the devil. _Would you like some forbidden fruit, the Edge? Go on, have a bite, have just a little taste of me. I promise it will_ not _ruin our lives one little bit!_

A fallen angel seemed a fitting description for Bono some days. But Edge couldn’t really fault him for being that way. Not when he himself had been playing his own devious little part in the whole thing. Not when Bono was clearly stuck having his own meltdown, something that Edge had tried to miss while caught up in his own stupid shit. Tried. Because he was an ass.

No, he couldn’t find a reason to be angry. Not anymore. He was just tired now.

He was so fucking weary, the aftermath of their argument, of the whole fucking day dragging him down, weighing heavy on his limbs, and in his chest—right where it all mattered the most. And then there was the continued presence of that niggling little sensation in his neck, growing more problematic by the hour.

He’d once had a chiropractor tell him that stress could wreak havoc on the body. “You just need to de-stress,” the chiropractor had said while wearing the smile of a man who had no earthly clue about Edge’s life. He was the Zen Master, after all. Stress? Edge wasn’t familiar. Mostly. Sure, he might have experienced approximately twelve mental breakdowns in the past two hours, but it wasn’t like that was a normal thing for him. And maybe keeping it all contained to one day would turn out to be a good thing? Get it all out of the way and then move on with life, stress-free for the rest of his days. And then he would be fine. Because, admittedly, he was currently not fine in the least.

He needed a smoke. Or a drink. Or something stronger than both, blended together with the smokes and the drink for better consumption. He could drink that horrible concoction and forget all about his problems. It was a plan. Self-destructive, but a plan. Maybe he could . . .

No, it was a terrible idea. Awful. What was wrong with him?

He needed an answer. Help. Guidance. A drink. He needed _something_. But as he stood there in the kitchen, having only managed to put away half of the shopping before spiralling into a quiet and well-contained meltdown, Edge found himself not knowing what to do. About anything. He could finish putting away the shopping, or he could go and have a nap. But he was also a bit hungry. He could do so many things. He could go and find Bono, talk it out, as suggested, _like fucking adults_ before the day dragged on for too long. Before he gave Bono further reason to loathe him today.

Or he could just do nothing.

It was such a tempting idea. Nothing. Imagine it. Just doing nothing. Wasn’t that why people went on holidays? To do nothing? Just imagine it.

That wasn’t why they had come though. Hanging about and doing nothing hadn’t been the plan that Shatner, fucking Shatner, had put in Bono’s head during a party that had turned into a phone call at four am—a phone call that, to Edge, felt as though it had taken place months ago now.

_I think just a week or two is all we need, you know, to find that missing connection between us. I’m sure we can figure out something. I mean, we have to. We have to, Edge. Don’t we?_

It had seemed so innocuous at the time, just Bono talking his usual talk, filling the air with words strung together in a way that was wonderful, that was a little weird, that didn’t make sense a good chunk of the time, but at the end of the day was purely him. One hundred percent Bono, and that was precisely what people signed up for when they sought him out, whether they liked it or not. In the end, though, they were all charmed. All but Thomas Peterson, that is.

After the day they’d had, after the _connection_ they’d experienced, Edge couldn’t help but see that phone call in a completely different light.

_I never thought that we were missing a connection._

_Maybe I was wrong. But you still agreed to come._

And what the fuck had that all been about? Bono had said it with that lopsided little smile on his face that told Edge, time and time again, that there were things out there, secrets that only Bono knew. Secrets that he might share if Edge did all his chores and included every soul in the world in his prayers each and every night, even the terrible, evil ones, because they especially needed all the help they could get. Secrets that he occasionally shared after one drink too many, because even Bono admitted that he was pretty useless when it came to functioning as a normal human being, and certainly struggled to keep his lips sealed despite his own best intentions.

Perhaps if Edge just got him drunk, then they could finally get to the bottom of this whole thing. Find out why Bono had smiled in such a way after saying such a thing. Talk it through over a bottle of vodka or two until they discovered exactly what part of their connection Bono thought they had lost.

 Because Edge couldn’t see it. Looking at their friendship, if he ignored the whole. . . _whateveritwas_ between them right now, he just could not pinpoint a single point in which they were lacking. The whole thing just seemed. . . illogical, as Spock would say.

“Captain, can you explain exactly how you think this ‘nexus’ between us has been damaged?” Edge said in his best Spock voice to an empty room, using air quotes on a word that seemed far more fitting for him than the unfancy _connection_. Though air quotes would no doubt leave his Vulcan mind completely baffled. Apparently such a gesture was destined to die out before the Enterprise ever took flight.

He had to laugh. There was little else he could think to do. If he continued to think back to that phone call, the tinge of desperation he’d started to imagine in Bono’s tone might just go from a _what-if?_ to a _it was there, I heard it and no one can convince me otherwise_ type of scenario, and such a mindset led straight on to madness.

No, it was best to just stop focusing on that phone call. Best to go and find a better way to occupy his mind. Perhaps he could channel all his newfound angst into writing a song? Or suck it up and talk to Bono? Or jump in the car and spend the rest of the afternoon driving away from his problems? Or put away the dishes that had long since dried on the counter? Or talk to Bono?

It was just hard not to wonder whether _this_ was what Bono had meant during that phone call. If the connection he’d been so desperate to rediscover was the one they’d tentatively established five years prior on a balcony in Èze as the sound of the waves below reminded Edge that he was in paradise, and he was lucky, so lucky to be in such a place on such a night with such a person. . .

With Bono. Bono and his dark hair and his warm hands. His rough stubble that had burned against Edge’s cheek as they’d kissed. And the way he had squeezed Edge’s hand in the cathedral, composing the rhythmic beat to a song that only the two of them knew, a song that they alone would ever know.

_here, right here . . ._

It was hard not to wonder whether Bono had planned for this all to happen. Even thinking such a notion left Edge picturing himself again pointing the blame, in the exact same way he’d imagined it at the marketplace.

_J’accuse, Bono!_

It would be such a bastard move. And he was a bastard for even considering it, when Bono was obviously caught up in his own shit. Thinking . . . whatever it was that went through his mind when things took a turn for the worse. Because they clearly had. How could they have not when, after sharing such a moment with his best friend, Edge had laid into him instead of discussing the whole thing _like fucking adults_?

He was going in circles. Lost, without a solution. God, if only he had a solution! Sure, the logical part of his mind had raised its hand at least once or twice throughout the extended breakdown, but. . . but no.

He wasn’t sure if he could choose that path. Not yet. Not when so little time had passed since the cathedral. Not when remembering it all so vividly made him want to fight against anyone or any thought that dared to try and show him the right path to follow. It was like a war was being staged in his mind, with Spielberg slated to direct. A bloody disaster, but hopefully it would come out looking golden.

Edge knew, if nothing else, that it was not doing him well remaining in the kitchen, alone with his own thoughts—thoughts that kept him right on the verge of panicking, but thankfully it had been a few minutes since they’d pushed him over the edge. He needed to get out of this room. No, he needed to put away the shopping first, and then get out. And do what? Something. Anything else. He’d figure it out once he got there. He always did.

The shopping went away. But the bowl that he’d bought Morleigh remained on the countertop, because he couldn’t bring himself to bury it into his suitcase to be forgotten about for another week, if they lasted together at the cottage that long. Hiding it away felt a lot like defeat, and Edge wasn’t ready to welcome such a thing into their lives.

The bowl remained on the countertop as a reminder, and Edge gave it one final, fleeting look before leaving the kitchen behind.

Upstairs, he sat on the bed and turned his phone in his hands over and over, contemplating and debating before finally forcing himself to act. The phone number he dialled was familiar, the answering machine message that greeted him after however many rings was new, and, facing the incoming beep with nary a plan, Edge felt an eerie sense of calm where there should have been panic. It was a calm that often came about moments before one made a right fool of themselves, and he had no doubt that he was about to be cast as the fool.

He was fine with it, really. He was completely fine.

When the beep came Edge left a rambling message that seemed to come from a special part in his brain that was heavily guarded and under lock and key, inaccessible to all, including him—especially him—and once the words left his lips they were instantly forgotten.

He hung up when the words stopped coming, then recommenced turning the phone in his hands, any contemplation quickly being drowned out as his brain chattered over itself, causing a wall of noise that was intercut with nanoseconds of radio silence. Somehow, he ended up separated from it all, as though he had been disconnected from his brain completely, floating above and staring down at the wanker sitting on the bed who had the look of someone caught on a world that was moments from ending.

It wasn’t the end of the world. It had only been a kiss. Two kisses, rather, and a whole lot of shit in between, a whole lot of shit extending into their future, causing more shit and taking over any other shit that might have _seemed_ important only a week ago, but not now. That shit was last week’s news, set aside until they could sort this new shit out.

Okay, so he couldn’t even pretend as though this whole thing wasn’t life changing. But still, it wasn’t the end of the world. This time would pass. And they would sort it out and make it through, or they wouldn’t.

There were only two options that he could figure, and not making it through was something he desperately wanted to avoid. At all costs. Because a life without Bono? It was inconceivable. It was unimaginable. He couldn’t even . . .

He just couldn’t picture it. He didn’t want to. Even the _thought_ of it cut through his chest in a way that almost felt physical—or it would have, if he weren’t still high above it all, disconnected from his body, his mind and all the pain that could and would drag him right back down to Earth. _Look at that poor bastard. Look at how he hurts. Look at the trauma created by his current situation, hell it’s written across his face. Just look at him, wouldya?_

There had been many times on stage where Bono would get caught up and start to disappear, to lose himself in it all, and luring him back into his body had been left up to Edge. God knows Bono could never do such a thing himself, not when he was caught between two worlds.

It was a joke between them now, one of those long-running things that people developed when they had been close for so long, when they knew each other so well that boasting about how they could finish each other's sentences didn’t feel like enough. No, they were at the point where they could anticipate when and how the other was going to take a breath, and draw from that action their mood and state of mind. Hell, sometimes Edge would even know the next sentence Bono was about to say, based on that simple and necessary act of breathing.

They just knew each other. Implicitly.

Yet somehow, Edge had managed to miss this, their. . . _whateveritwas_ despite being given a pretty huge clue five years prior. He was an idiot. But he was also the only one who knew how to get someone back into their body. Prior experience, and all that. So if he was qualified to wrangle Bono back, then he was sure as hell able to sort himself out. No matter how reluctant he might have been to float back down and start dealing again with the chaos currently occupying his brain.

He didn’t have much of a choice. Eventually, something had to give.

His phone started ringing, and immediately Edge was back, turning it in his hands and contemplating not answering, before remembering exactly why he’d made the call in the first place. Guidance was needed. Something was needed. _Anything_ was needed right now.

“Hello?”

“I’m sorry, honey, I was in the shower when you called,” Morleigh rushed out. “Is everything okay? Your message, you sounded a little . . . blue.”

_blue, blue, electric blue . . ._

Great. That reminder was precisely what he needed right now.

He let out a laugh that felt like a cry for help before replying, “I’m fine,” two easy words that came out sounding twisted and peculiar.

“. . .are you sure?”

“I am. Everything is fine here, seriously, I just thought I’d call because—because I was going to call the other night, but, well, you know. I forgot, I guess. But I just thought I should check up, see how things are going your way. And,” Edge let out a hurried exhale, rubbing his neck while choking back a laugh, and, when the interruption he’d expected never came, that laugh turned into a sigh that felt much more meaningful than it sounded, “and I missed hearing your voice.”

“You’re gorgeous, you know that?” Morleigh’s amusement sounded like everything good and pure in the world. It sounded like home, and Edge hadn’t realized how much he’d missed hearing it, day in day out, until it came through the receiver. “I was going to call you last night, actually, because funnily enough I missed hearing your voice too, can you believe that? But we ended up having a long and restless night, you know, I think she misses you, and I just was so busy and—”

“It’s alright,” Edge cut in. “It doesn’t matter. Does Sian really miss me?”

“Of course she does, how could she not? You’re somewhat loveable and sweet, and you know babies eat that shit up like it’s mashed vegetables.”

It hit him then, the reality of their situation. The simple answer to his problem; the _only_ answer there could ever be, appearing like the most terrible of gifts from heaven, summoned by Morleigh casually bringing up mashed vegetables. The sort of things couples talked about.

They were a couple, a fucking family, and she was his person. He couldn’t lose her.

He just couldn’t.

And of course such a fact had been obvious since that one morning .  . .God, had it really been six years? It had. Six years, but it felt like they’d always been together.

Six years, but it had passed in an instant, and he still remembered the way she had looked at him that morning before reaching for the rumpled sheets that had been pushed to the bottom of the bed. She had drawn the sheets up and over their heads, shutting the world away, and for that one extended moment Edge had almost believed that they could stay like that, alone in a bed with dawn breaking through the window behind her, for as long as they both wanted to.  And then she had smiled, just before pulling the sheet back, in a way that Edge had never seen her smile before. He had wanted to make it appear, again and again, and it had occurred to him slowly that he could. He had the chance. With just one smile, she had offered him a future. She had been happy.

She was happy. _They_ were happy. How the hell could he jeopardize that in any way? Even talking about it, broaching the subject . . .

“. . .Edge?”

His panic had evolved once more. It was an uneasy sense of calm he was now experiencing throughout his entire body, save for his chest. There he felt the heaviness. Only in his chest did he still feel like he might be close to drowning at any moment.

How could even a simple thought of giving away something he’d never really had _ache_ so much?  

And why did it, when the logical part of him had lapsed into that calmness so quickly? His brain knew the score. He knew. He fucking knew what had to be done, and yet there he was, thinking of Bono again. Remembering a time where the only thing of importance had been the words spoken, and all other details had since faded away. “Sometimes it’s best to follow that feeling in your chest,” Bono had said, “because your heart often knows best, Edge, even when your mind is telling you otherwise. I mean, Jesus, if I think back to all of the times I could have listened to what my brain was insisting I do, but instead went the other way . . . I don’t think I would have gotten very far in life at all.”

“. . . _Edge_!”

Quickly Edge blinked back into existence, but not before letting out a startled noise that wasn’t quite a _huh_ nor was it a _what_ nor even a _hmm_ , but a bastardized hybrid of the three that, try as he might, he doubted he would ever be able to replicate again. He cleared his throat before adding, “Sorry, what?”

“Sorry. What.” Morleigh slowly repeated after a brief pause. “That’s all you’re giving me here? Honey, I’ve been trying to get your attention for the better part of an hour.”

“. . . _really_?”

“Okay, try a minute or so. I was just, you know, lying. To see how high I could get your voice to go,” she explained, and if her mission had been to make Edge smile, then she hadn’t succeeded. “And you didn’t really disappoint me.” But she wasn’t laughing either. In fact, her tone was downright serious. “You kind of drifted away from me for a bit. Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”

He really had to time his internalized debates better. But the concern in her voice, as well as the familiar frustration—and the way she expressed it, with a sense of both amusement and adoration, because, after all, she knew exactly how he got sometimes—at his latest bout of, as she often said, being ‘away with the fairies’ left him missing her all the more.

He could picture her expression, imagine the look in her eye, the way her lips curved as she spoke, and it came to him so vividly that, for a moment, it felt like she was right there next to him. But then the touch of her hand on his didn’t appear, nor did the smell of her shampoo, and swiftly the distance between them became so painfully apparent that it was tempting to just walk out the door, leave all of his problems behind and return to her side.

That distance he, too, felt in his chest. And it wasn’t just a heaviness, no, it was something else. Something more.

“ _Eeedge_. You’re doing it again.”

“Sorry.” Edge let out a dry chuckle. “Sorry, I was—I just miss you so much right now.”

Morleigh’s sigh harshed loudly through the receiver. “Talk to me. I know something is up with you.”

“Aren’t I allowed simply to miss my missus after not seeing her for almost a week?”

“Honey, don’t be purposely obtuse. Do you know what that message you left me sounded like?”

Edge paused. “Not really.” It was the truth. He had no earthly clue, though wagering _weird_ as a strong possibility seemed like a safe bet.

“Honestly, neither do I. You were all over the place. At first I thought you might have been drunk, but then I know what you’re like when drunk, so. Then I figured, well, maybe you weren’t drunk. Maybe you’d discovered some suspect mushrooms out in that garden, but that didn’t seem right either. Is it hot there?”

“I think it’s hot everywhere right now.”

“Hmm. But you don’t _sound_ like you’ve been struck down with heatstroke, so—”

“Mor, seriously—”

“Did you guys have a fight?”

“What? No!” Edge exclaimed. He was almost starting to regret making the call in the first place. Almost. In another life Morleigh might have made a great detective. And in another life he might have folded when faced with her choice of interrogation tactics. Not this time though. Save for his hand wandering to rub at the back of his neck, which she couldn’t see anyway, he wasn’t showing any signs of weakness.

At least he didn’t think. Admittedly, he could sometimes be obtuse. But he couldn’t let her know about . . . about anything. Not the fight, not the reason for it, and not everything that had happened before, after or in between. Even if he wanted to—and maybe a small part of him _did_ want to—how the hell would he start with such a discussion? There were no words that came to mind.

There were just no words for it.

“No. No, nothing happened, I swear,” he insisted. “Everything is fine, honestly. It’s just, you know, the baby is getting closer to being born and, I don’t know, I guess I just felt a bit guilty. Being away from you two, I mean. You three, almost. It feels like I should be there.”

He was such a prick.

“Oh _nooo._ No, honey, do not feel bad, alright? We’re fine here, we are. I mean, not so fine that we don’t ever want you to return. Sian and I miss you, but we totally understand that you needed to do this.” Morleigh paused. “Well, I understand. Sian’s not quite there yet, you know? But she’s a trooper, and these past few days have flown by, so what’s two weeks, really? And I’m not _that_ pregnant yet! I don’t think I’m ready to be that pregnant yet. God, I feel like this pregnancy has flown by this time around. Has it felt that way to you?”

It mostly had. The past couple of days, though, had seemed to drag on and on, without an end in sight. Had it really only been a few days since he’d kissed his family goodbye? Or had it secretly been a year or two, and somehow everyone but Edge had remained none the wiser?

“It has gone pretty quick,” he answered, because he had to say _something_. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to worry you or anything.”

“Me? Worried? I’m fine I tells ya!”

“Oh, a wise guy, eh? Why I oughta—”

“Yes, you oughta. But maybe wait until you’re actually here, wise guy, so you can do something about it, hmm?”

She had a point. But suddenly it seemed incredibly important for Edge to further express how he felt about her. Important, and a little desperate, in more ways than one.

“Yeah, but I can think of a few things that we could do that don’t require being in the same room.”

“I’m sure you can,” she said. “I’m sure I could too. In fact, they’re all coming to mind right this second. But, you see, nearly two years ago now we happened to welcome a child into this world together, and while she is currently taking a nap, I think you both know how quickly things can change there. And how quickly she can move on from that nap and into my world, now that she’s free of her bars and in her big-girl bed.”

“. . . right. Yeah, well. You make a good point.”

“There’s also the problem of the toddler you’re currently sharing a home with, I swear he gets a sick sense of joy out of waiting for the most inopportune time to walk in on people,” Morleigh drawled out.

It took a moment for her words to hit, but then Edge was cracking up. There was little else he could do, and once the laughter came, it just would not stop. He collapsed into it, feeling his shoulders shake and his cheeks burn, and when Morleigh joined him it was like she was in the room once more, laughing with him but also at him, because, really, it hadn’t been that _funny_. Yet it was a release that he’d desperately needed. And one that he maybe didn’t deserve, after everything that had happened. But he welcomed it nonetheless, because for those precious few moments he could just give in and forget.

Morleigh was the first to sober, though it was clear from how her voice sounded that she was still smiling, as she warned, “I swear to god, if you tell Bono I called him a toddler, I will come for you. I will. Do not doubt me on this.”

“I won’t. I would never.”

“Good. Though he knows I love him. Maybe you should tell him, just so you can fill me in on his exact reaction? I envision a pouty face, and a few choice words being said while he tries desperately to hide the smile that keeps threatening to break on through. What do you think?”

Edge didn’t want to even try picturing Bono’s face. After attempting to push it from his mind for the past hour or so, summoning it straight on back to the front seemed like a step in the wrong direction. Although he hadn’t actually been that successful in his attempts.

Since their argument in the kitchen, it felt like barely a minute could go by without Edge receiving a visual reminder from his brain of the way Bono’s face had changed. It was an expression that Edge had seen Bono wear only a handful of times over the years, and never before had it appeared because of him. Despair. He’d wanted to beg for forgiveness. He wanted to still. Anything to make it all better, before he had to make it even worse. He wanted a chance to forget that look, but knew it would haunt him for a while longer yet.

He wanted a chance to just forget. If only for a little while, so he could breathe. Simply breathe.

“Is he there?” Morleigh whispered. “Is he listening? Is that why you’ve gone quiet?”

“Uh—”

“Is he pouting?” she asked, before letting out a breathy laugh that Edge knew all too well.

“No. He’s not here, sorry. He’s . . . I don’t know where he is actually. He’s somewhere else. Not in the house. At least he wasn’t.”

“All quiet on the western front? Enjoy the silence while you can, I say.”

Before Edge could reply he was interrupted by the faint sound of Sian crying in the background. Her timing, as always, was impeccable.

“It’s like she waits for the perfect cue to make her entrance. I’m in awe,” Morleigh deadpanned. “I better go, hon.”

“Of course,” Edge replied. He didn’t want her to leave. He didn’t want to have to deal with whatever came next. “Duty calls.”

“She does, and loudly. I’ll call you, alright? Probably tomorrow night?”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

“It’s a date then. Alright, gotta run. Love you.”

“Love—” Edge started to say, before being cut off by the sound of the dial tone. He pulled the phone down to briefly stare at it like he was some clueless character in a movie, looking for answers that the device obviously could not give.

For a moment afterward he just sat there, allowing himself the luxury of pretending that he could remain in his room for the rest of the day, distracting himself with writing a mindless song, or some mindless book, and that facing the consequences of his—their—actions was something that would simply fade away on its own.

The moment passed quickly. Letting out a sigh, Edge dragged himself from the bed and went to put his phone on charge before returning to sit back down. The time for pretending was over. Reality was here to stay. He had to think. Had to act. He had to do more than what he’d done.

He needed a plan.

It took a little more thinking before Edge felt some semblance of confidence. It wasn’t quite a plan he’d come up with, nor was there admittedly _that_ much confidence, but still. The point in which he felt up to leaving the room had been reached, and from there it would be easier. It had to be. The threshold would be crossed. After that it was just one foot in front of the other, down the stairs and out of the cottage, and then straight on towards the problem at hand.

Easy-peasy.

Edge jerked his head side to side until he heard his neck crack. It wasn’t enough to bring him relief, but it was gratifying nonetheless. Then he let out an aggravated groan before again dragging himself from the bed, and it took only a few short steps to leave his bedroom.

One foot in front of the other.

He made a quick detour to the bathroom before heading down the stairs, halting on the final step. Anxiety had returned. His mission was to set out and find Bono, yet there he was nervously peering around the corner like a flighty animal, prepared to scatter at the first sign of movement.

Bono wasn’t to be seen. He must have still been outside. At least, Edge hoped he was still out there, instead of taking the car keys and fleeing.

After leaving the stairs behind, the first thing that he spotted was the scarf he had bought for Bono. It had been strewn across the back of the couch, impossible to miss, and yet Edge had somehow not seen it when he’d passed by earlier.

It was only a scarf.

Edge was slow to pick it up, slower to put it down, as he savoured the way the material felt between his fingers. Even in the dull light, the scarf was still a brilliant blue. He’d bought it for that reason. It was hard to look past such a colour. It was hard to not give in.

It was a warm day. How long had Bono been outside in such heat? Edge had lost track of time. It could have been hours. It could have been half a day. It might only have been forty minutes. Still, any extended time was too long. Yet another thing that Edge could and would feel guilty about. That list was growing.  He had to put an end to it, before that list became too long. But as he stood there at the door, looking out at the garden, Edge couldn’t quite bring himself to step outside.

As he watched the trees gently sway in the breeze, the noise in his head returned. He had his answer already, and yet. . .

Overthinking was a burden he was forced to live with. There was no stopping it.

He knew two things for sure. One, he couldn’t bear to lose another woman in his life, especially not when that woman was Morleigh, and two, what he’d had with Bono prior to all of this (more than a partnership, more than a friendship . . . was it breaking any rules if he were to use the word soulmate and make it count for two people in his life?) was far too special to compromise in any way.

It was too complicated, and with complication came strain, and with strain came problems that just couldn’t be fixed, and with those problems inevitably came the end.

Edge had seen happen before, between people who had a bond similar to the one he and Bono shared. And maybe there was a chance they might be the lucky ones in the midst of so much failure, but it was just too much of a risk to find out. Especially considering that they weren’t the only ones who would be affected by this. It wasn’t just about them.

It could never be just about them. He had to look at the whole thing pragmatically, they both did, and recognize that this, their _whateveritwas,_ was far bigger than just the two of them.

To lose either Bono or Morleigh, Edge knew, would be like losing a part of himself. Actually, no, it wasn’t _like_ , that wasn’t nearly enough to showcase precisely the pain and emptiness he could thankfully only currently imagine. Losing either of them would simply result in a part of him being lost for good, period.

Their combined eccentricities brought out the _true_ weirdness in him, not that Miller Lite weirdness that he’d showed the world only on every second Wednesday. Their combined talent made him strive to be the very best he could be in the studio and onstage, and he was sure, without Bono pushing him and pushing him and _pushing him_ early on and later on and, really, every time he thought Edge was dragging his feet even a little, that his professional and personal life would have ended up lacking in so many ways. And the way their eyes lit up when he entered a room made him strive to be the very best man he could be, so that he might one day be able to step up and into the shoes of that person they saw whenever he walked into their lives.

No, he couldn’t lose either of them. The band he could live without, if serious shit ever went down there, and he seriously hoped that never happened. But if it ever did, it would hurt, yes, an agonizing hurt that he might never get over, but at least he would still have his people to help him on through.

The two of them? It would be like losing a lung. There he would be, day in day out, screaming at random people, “ _How do I breathe_?” and they would reply, “Stop screaming, for one thing, you’ve only got one lung now so it’s probably best you conserve your oxygen for things that truly matter. And just be glad it was only a lung. After all, you’re not dead, which just proves you _can_ survive on a single lung. There are people out there with no heart, Edge, how do you think they survive? By becoming politicians, probably, and earning far more money than they’re worth . . .”

He really needed a change of scenery. He needed to step outside.  Clearly, he had spent far too much time in the damn cottage, overthinking things until his brain couldn’t handle it anymore and started reaching out for help that was still far, _far_ off in the distance. He would have to help himself, because a brain that had reached its breaking point, resorting to throwing out quips like it was a regular Lenny Bruce, had no use to anyone for what was likely the discernible future.

But at least he could now say that it had finally happened. He had finally managed to break his brain by overthinking. Bono had always said it was going to happen, but Edge had never quite believed him. Who was the smart one now? Always Bono.

Always Bono. And with that in mind, perhaps Edge wouldn’t even have to do any further heavy lifting in the thinking department. Maybe Bono had figured it all out and reached the same conclusion and then passed it, eventually figuring out a solution to all their woes, the perfect way to remove heartache from a situation and leave their friendship firmly unchanged and intact for the rest of their days.

Or maybe Bono was out there alone, a victim of overthinking himself, growing more despondent with each minute that passed? Both scenarios were plausible. Actually, only the second scenario was really plausible. Bono was brilliant, especially when caught in a situation that required quick critical thinking, but when emotions were in play he often found it hard to see past it all and focus on the problem at hand. This was something Edge had to do himself.

He had no idea how. Or if he would be able to bring himself to do it. God, how could he sit down next to Bono and say _anything_ right now that wasn’t a _yes?_ They had fucking kissed just that morning, and god knows what might have happened if there hadn’t been an interruption.

Of course, away from Bono it was easy to see all the reasons why he had to put an end to it, and fast, but would Edge really be able to put those reasons into words when Bono was so close to him, looking at him—looking _through_ him, as he so often did, when on the hunt for an answer that Edge hadn’t yet figured out how to give—with wide eyes that said far more than his mouth ever could?

Edge just had to try. What other choice did he have?

He simply had to.

Together they had fucked up. It took two to tango, after all, and didn’t Edge just _hate_ that saying? But it was the truth in this regard. They had both fucked up, at the same time, with each other. Twice. With five years in between each fuck up, but both had happened together. He knew that.

Hell, at this point in his extended breakdown he was pretty sure all of those wonderful facts had been stamped on the inside of his brain with a branding iron, like he was some weird, pathetic cow who had lost most of his hair far too early in life, doomed to go round and round in circles while obsessing over the little things as reality gave him the middle finger as it passed on by.

He knew what had happened. And he knew how many times.

He knew a lot of things now, and if, after having so much damn information at hand and being certain of which path was the right one to take, they still managed to somehow head down the wrong one, even then he would know life just might turn out between the two of them. But then life did have a funny way of turning any grand illusions of foresight on its head and leaving those who proclaimed to be at least a hundred and ten percent certain of how it was all going to transpire with very red faces indeed.

No. That wasn’t going to happen. It was stupid to even consider. But then, he was pretty sure he’d reached a point where he’d focused on the truth at hand too intently, and it was now starting to take the appearance of a Picasso painting. All of those shapes, strategically positioned on a canvas where they could serve as a giant _fuck you_ to anyone who had approached the painting searching for cohesion.

Perhaps there had been a point where the truth was united at the forefront of his mind, but all that overthinking had caused it to scatter a bit, leaving him with the beginnings of a headache. On any other day he would likely have a bit of a lie down, but today such an action just felt selfish. So it seemed he was simply stuck with an overworked mind, trying to come up with scenarios that really weren’t worth the brainpower required, trying to imagine reasons why saying _no_ to Bono was such brilliant idea, or why saying _yes_ might just work in some alternate realm that they did not, in fact, occupy, when all he really should be doing was leaving the cottage and going to settle in for a serious talk. A talk that had to happen, no matter what a small part of his brain was trying to argue.

But really, he had no idea what was in store for them. But Edge knew fear. And when fear came knocking, it was damn near impossible to ignore.

They had fucked up together. But he had been the one to throw gasoline on embers that should either have been gently coaxed to a bigger flame, or left alone until they slowly burned out, fading away into little more than a wisp of smoke.

There was fucking up, and then there was _royally_ fucking up, and that was a badge that Edge rarely got to wear in their band, what with it being monopolized by certain other bandmates time and time again. Now that it was finally in his possession, it wasn’t pride that he ultimately felt, but a resigned sense of obligation to do his part before passing it back to where it usually belonged. It had to play out this way. To hell with his intrusive thoughts telling him otherwise. He had an obligation to make it play out this way.

_And what exactly was it that you said to Bono when you let him down gently_ , the press would ask if Edge made it through the rest of their trip without jumping out of a fucking window.

_Well, I kept it simple, you see, so there was no room for misunderstanding, but—I mean, it’s like ripping off a band-aid, really. You’ve got to do it fast to lessen the sting. You know, if the whole thing is over quickly then there probably won’t be as many tears. Not as much heartache. That’s the main thing, right? Keeping the heartache at bay?_

_. . . uh huh. Heartache. Sure. So, how did you accomplish this speedy and painless yet frank discussion with Bono, the man who only a few hours prior to said discussion had composed a rhythmic beat by simply squeezing your hand while holding it?_

_Well, I—right, I just. . . I simply said to Bono that, look, this is the issue, this is the other issue, and these are all the fuck ups we’ve accomplished together—at least all the ones I could currently recall. And no, I don’t have a plan, really, just sheer panic and a sense of obligation to each and every person I know, including you,_ especially _you, Bono, but_ especially _her as well. You understand, right? It’s a shitstorm waiting to happen, for one thing. And it’s not you, it’s me. But it’s not really me, either, it’s everything and everyone and we would be insane, utterly insane to even consider taking any further steps, no matter how many intruding thoughts I have to push away when I look at you these days, and there are many, sooo fucking many—you have no idea how many—but we can’t, okay? Really, we just can’t do it. And I think dwelling on it further might be a bad idea too, not only because of the temptation that lurks in such treacherous corners of the mind, but because of the heartache. You don’t need that shit, not now, not ever, and that’s why we just cannot do it, B._

_. . .anything else?_

_No. That’s basically what I said to him. Yeah, that’s all there was to it, really. Like ripping off a band-aid, right?_

_I see. And do you think . . . all of that will keep the heartache at bay for good? Not to mention any impending breakdowns that might just be lurking in those treacherous corners of your minds?_

_My minds? Plural? What are you implying by that?_

_Excuse me, I meant both Bono’s mind and yours, but I’ll let you reach whatever conclusion you wish on my previous statement. But seriously, do you think this will lessen the heartache?_

_. . . we’ll just have to wait and see._

And wasn’t it just fantastic that the press that he himself had imagined were taking a potential dig at his current mental state. So. Very. Fantastic. He really needed a change of scenery. God, what was he waiting for? Really? He was just wasting time. Delaying the inevitable.

_Just. Fucking. Do it, you wanker._

He retrieved two ice-cold bottles of Perrier from the kitchen and then marched himself right on outside. Not another thought was needed. There was no time for that, no need for more internal deliberation. It would be just like ripping of a band-aid.

He stepped outside. The breeze was warm, but not overbearing, and for that Edge was glad. At least Bono hadn’t been stuck melting away next to the lake. Because that was exactly where Edge knew he would find him. He knew Bono. They would never need a sniffer dog if he ever went missing. Just ask Edge to use his Bono-finding sense, and he would be found in minutes. Easy-peasy.

As he crossed the lawn a single thought kept repeating in his mind: _can we survive this?_

He just didn’t know. He didn’t do well not knowing. And when he spotted Bono by the lake, knees drawn up, head bowed down, looking as though he had the world weighing on his shoulders, the desperate feeling that appeared was so overwhelming that Edge had to take a moment to just breathe. In and out. He had to know. No, that wasn’t enough. They had to survive this. They just had to.

His footsteps gave him away. Each crunch of leaves beneath his feet caused Bono’s head to shift a little more to the side. And when Edge was only a couple of feet away Bono looked to turn in on himself, just like he had in the car.

Perhaps he knew what was coming. But would knowing lessen the impact of Edge’s words? Would it be enough to .  . .

Would it be enough?

He didn’t want to hurt Bono. But how could he avoid doing that, when already he’d managed to do some damage?

Of course, at first glance that damage appeared to remain completely internalized. A closer look, however, revealed exit wounds in the most obvious of places, hurts that Bono might have thought he could hide from the world, and maybe he could, and maybe he had, again and again, but he could never hide them from Edge. Okay, maybe one or two he could—and maybe he had—but eventually the rest would slip out somewhere, somehow, and some of them Edge probably had already sensed long before Bono ever opened his mouth. Just from taking a closer look.

“Hey.”

It was there in the way Bono averted his eyes when he smiled up at Edge, as his legs slid down and away from his body. One. It was there in the smile itself, how the corner of his mouth quirked and his lips thinned, barely a smile at all, despite the obvious effort being put in. Two. And when he quickly turned again towards the lake, his palm shifting back and forth against his thigh, fingers curling, thumb circling an abstract pattern, letting the silence extend for a mere few seconds that turned agonizing fast before he finally echoed the _hey_ that had been thrown his way, the surface damage suddenly seemed so in-your-face apparent that Edge had no choice but to resent himself for missing it the first time around. Three. Three exit wounds. He could only imagine how many more he might spot during a third glance.

But no. He was being ignorant again. It had been right there when he’d first approached, in the way Bono had curled in on himself. That wasn’t an action that made an appearance on any normal day. And on such a day, it might not have even been something Bono could hide from the world, no matter how hard he tried.

They were alone though. There wasn’t anyone looking in on them, desperate to see all the warning signs that Edge might have missed. It was just the two of them, and so much shit between them that Edge didn’t even know where to start. Four. Four exit wounds, and the possibility of more.

The extended silence that followed did well to activate Edge’s fight-or-flight response, leaving his heart racing in anticipation of what was to come. If anything did ever eventuate. Perhaps they were destined to linger by the lake in awkward silence for the rest of their days, as a result of neither knowing how to begin such a conversation. Or they were destined to continue what had been started in the kitchen, the silence merely a way of properly antagonizing Edge before the barbs begun to fly.

He hoped not. He really hoped that wasn’t in their cards, because there were just some things that, once said, were impossible to take back. To recover from. And when backed into a corner, Edge just had no idea how he might respond. Every now and then he surprised himself, and not in a good way.

He could be cruel.

They both could, and sometimes there was just no preparing for it. Perhaps it was best that the silence never ended. They wouldn’t fight then. They couldn’t be cruel. And Edge would never be spurred into repeating exactly what he’d said in the kitchen. He’d never again have to see the expression that had appeared on Bono’s face in the aftermath.

Of course, all of that could easily be avoided if Edge fled the scene completely. He could run away from his problems, like the child he apparently was, and if and when Bono ever worked up the emotional strength to come find him and talk things through, Edge could simply follow the route his four daughters had when they had been little and faced with a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad situation that they wished to be excluded from: big crocodile tears, followed by an exclamation of _don’t wanna_ , before of course burying their faces into a pillow. Bono would never try again.

It was a viable solution. To a four-year-old.

He was an idiot, but that fact had become common knowledge around the time he’d lied to Bono about the fucking birds in the roof, so the constant reminders weren’t really worth the energy that would be better used actually facing his important and potentially life-changing problems. He could flee, but where would that get him? Deeper into a mess that needed fixing, sooner rather than later. It needed fixing _now_ , as quickly and painlessly as possible. He could do it. He had to. Just like ripping off a band-aid. . .

He simply had to bring himself down to Bono’s level. It was the only way to start whatever was destined to transpire in their immediate future. Expecting Bono to take the first step was both a dick move, and something that could potentially leave them waiting for a while, given how sore he appeared. It was true that he had never been that good at holding grudges, but he sure as hell had some talent in holding in his anger, his pain until that imperfect moment where the pressure became too real and the explosion burst onto the scene.

He didn’t look like he was going to explode anytime soon though. He just looked lost, in such a way that Edge could understand implicitly.

What a predicament they had found themselves caught up in.

Slowly Edge ripped off the band-aid, unsure the entire way down of the reaction he was going to receive. _Any second now_ , he thought. _At any second now, Bono’s going to say stop. Stand up straight, and leave. Walk away, Edge. Just fucking leave it._

Nothing came of it. The silence simply continued as Edge sat down next to Bono, keeping a good few inches between them because . . . just because. For a moment he just sat still, watching Bono watch the lake, seemingly ignorant to his entire surroundings, of the person a good few inches to his right. But Edge knew how observant he could be. He was observant enough to know that Edge knew such things. He was definitely observant enough to keep track of Edge at most times, on and off the stage, even during those times when Edge could barely keep track of himself.

The silence was abruptly broken when Bono said, “I could live here, Edge,” and his choice of words as well as the fact that he’d actually spoken shocked Edge into a momentary stupor.

After the day they’d had, Bono still wanted to live here? Here, where there were constant reminders of everything that had transpired between them?

His body language said otherwise, but perhaps he still had hope that things would continue further. Suddenly, the thought of extinguishing that hope felt like a great and terrible offense that required severe punishment. But what choice did Edge have? One of them had to slip into the role of the bad guy. One of them had to leave hope behind and step into the real world. “Look at that water, Edge. Look at it. I think . . . it’s hard to look at a body of water and imagine all the activity below the surface when all I can see is how still it is.”

Edge wanted to respond. He wanted to add _yet you still know something is there underneath it all, don’t you?_ He very nearly turned to Bono and said _there’s always something happening below the surface, even if it’s not apparent. Even if you don’t know where to look at first._ But he couldn’t bring himself to be that person. Not today.

There was little else he could think of to say though, besides the things that needed to be said, but Edge wanted the moment to continue a just a while longer. Just the two of them, sitting quietly as they watched the water ahead. Enjoying the silence, the calm that emerged from being surrounded by Mother Nature.

It was easy to slip away from the world in such a secluded area, to pretend as though they were the only two people on Earth, that they weren’t so small in the eyes of Mother Universe, and that one day she might just see them as being worthy of knowing all the secrets she had written in the stars.

It was easy to pretend sometimes.

Soon enough the silence grew to be too much, and Edge knew he had to act. Had to do something, to bring forth a conclusion so that they could move on and start to rebuild. With a sigh that was only half put-on, he picked up one of the Perrier bottles that had been creating a damp spot on his shorts, and pressed it against Bono’s knee. The reaction wasn’t quite as extreme as he’d hoped, but there was still a jolt, still a look of surprise and then just a _look_ , and when Bono took the bottle from him, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath, it almost felt as though nothing had ever changed between them.

They were in Bono’s backyard in Dublin, enjoying the sun as they watched the kids play together, two cool drinks between them as Ali and Morleigh’s voices drifted through the comfortable silence. They were on the balcony at Èze as dusk made its slow and lovely exit for another night, a guitar in Edge’s hands, whiskey sour in Bono’s, trying to write a song together and failing because the night was too warm, the waves too distracting. They were side by side on the outskirts of a cottage’s garden in France, enjoying the sun as they watched the water, a cool drink between them as Bono ultimately failed to fight his smile appearing and Edge didn’t even try, attempting to pretend that the moment was like all of the others.

“It’s warm out,” Edge said after Bono’s expression had faded. “I thought you might appreciate a cold drink. It’s lemon flavoured.”

“Is it now?” Bono gave the label a perfunctory examination before undoing the lid. “So it is. An impeccable choice.” After a long drink he recapped the bottle, placing it between them before picking it back up and setting it to his left. The silence returned, and with it came the foreboding suspicion that it would never end, that no courage to act would ever be found, and that this was how it was going to be for the rest of their days.

But before Edge could delve too far into the anxious pits of his mind, his attention was stolen away by Bono, who had slowly, as if scared he might be shoved away, started to close the distance between them.

Edge didn’t shove him away. He would never dream of doing such a thing. He just sat there, stock-still as Bono leaned in towards him, in search of comfort, of any sort of connection to be made. It was only when their shoulders touched that Edge moved, bringing his arm up and around to pull Bono in closer still, and the way that Bono sagged against him—in relief? It had to be relief, what else could it be?—left Edge feeling like the jerk of all jerks. Relief only came after real fear had emerged. Relief followed the realization that everything hadn’t been permanently fucked up. It was a feeling that would dissipate soon enough, but for now Edge was content just to let Bono bask in the moment.

“I’m sorry, Edge.”

The moment was over. Surprised, Edge quickly twisted away to properly stare at Bono before blurting out, “No, I’m sorry. You’ve no reason to be sorry.”

“I don’t? Why don’t I?”

“You—” Trailing off without a single idea of how to continue that thought, Edge could do little else but shake his head before glancing at his hands, at the water ahead, at anywhere that wasn’t Bono’s face.

He wasn’t an idiot; he knew how to read Bono. Despite the impassive expression that was currently on show a few inches to his left, Edge knew exactly where to look to find the answer to all the questions he couldn’t quite bring himself to ask. So he didn’t look Bono dead-on, didn’t take in the blues of his eyes, because he had a feeling that, without the purple shades there to hide the worst of it, he might just discover the most potent exit wound of them all.

He couldn’t look at that moments before making it all worse. He just couldn’t. Not when he was still so close to the line that separated the two choices. Yes or no. Stop or continue. That line had been blurred, yet he’d managed to make it through.

“So we’re both sorry then.” Bono slowly nodded, gaze once more fixed to the ground. “That’s something, I suppose. No, it’s good. It’s out there now. We can move past it and move on.”

“Bono . . .” Edge rubbed at his neck, finding the skin there slick with sweat. They locked eyes only briefly, yet it was nearly enough to make him unravel completely. He was weak, and Bono was nothing if not strong, that’s all there was to it. What a fucking pair they made.

“Just say it, Edge,” Bono said flatly. He knew what was coming. Of course he knew. How could he not? He was brilliant in so many ways. Knowing that he was prepared, that he was expecting Edge to say the one thing that needed to be said, should have made it that much simpler.

And it did, in a way. He no longer had to formulate a plan for how to deal with a completely blindsided Bono, after all. That was something. It was at least one positive thing to grasp onto. But there was nothing, _nothing_ , that could make saying it any easier, and when Edge opened his mouth to speak, at first the words refused to leave his lips. They caught in his throat, where they stood their ground before being dislodged with a harsh cough that caused Bono to jolt. He quickly fell still, remaining that way when the words finally tumbled from Edge’s lips.

“We can’t do this.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“Tell me.”

Edge paused. He’d not been prepared for such a question. He should have been.

Obviously he should have expected it; this was Bono he was dealing with. Inquisitive Bono, who had emerged from the womb wanting to know everything about the world, why it spun and how it came to be, why bad things happened to good people and who to look toward to make everything alright, but when he did look straight up and through the clouds and received the answer _everything happens for a reason_ it was always enough.

Not this time. This wasn’t just happening for one reason, but many. So many, and of course Bono needed to know. And he had a right to know. Only the truth could wipe that expression from his face, take the hurt from his eyes and turn them vibrant once more. Right now, all Edge was seeing was a dull blue and a desperate want for an answer that he wasn’t quite prepared to give yet. But he had to try. Because prepared or not, this had to happen now.

“Because. . . because of the band—”

“The band?” Bono let out a bitter laugh. “Are you—”

“If you want an answer then you need to let me finish, alright? This isn’t easy for me, you know.”

“I never said it was,” Bono said after a pause. His voice was quiet now, the bitterness having been washed away and instantly forgotten. “I never expected—it’s not supposed to be easy, Edge. For either of us. Can you . . . I mean, picture yourself in my position, and imagine how I might be feeling right now.”

Edge could barely bring himself to try. “I’m not doing this because I want to hurt you, B, you’ve got to believe that. It’s the last thing I want. You have no idea how much it kills me to—to see you looking like that, alright? But this is bigger than you. Than both of us. And it’s not just the band to think about, it’s who we are and everything that makes us that way. Our families—I mean, we have two beautiful and _pregnant_ women who love us unconditionally. Shouldn’t that be enough?”

“Have you ever talked about this with Morleigh?”

“No, have you with Ali?” Edge shot back.

Bono didn’t respond. With his lips pursed together tightly, he looked straight on ahead towards the water. The sudden silence was deafening—an old cliche that Edge always rolled his eyes at, but the only thing that could sum up the moment. Deafening.

It was quick to pick away at his brain, to thump against his eardrums and make demands that he just couldn’t give in to. Every fibre in Edge’s body screamed at him to break the silence, to do something, _anything_ , but he resisted. He knew the moment was needed. He knew Bono.

It was an agonizing wait, during which all of the doubts that could have emerged did, accompanied by certain anxieties that Edge would have preferred to be without. Was he making a mistake? No. This was how it had to be, he knew. He’d been over it, again and again in his head.

There was no solution other than the one he’d put forward. And in time Bono would realize this too, and be grateful for it all. In time. Was he making a mistake though? Was he? Was he just an idiot, going over the same problem again and again and looking for a tiny sliver of hope? Did he even want that hope? No, of course not. It was ridiculous to even consider.

When dealing with the very thought of having an affair, a sliver of hope was a very bad thing indeed. Nothing good ever came of it. Nothing but pain, and heartache for all involved. Them. Ali and Morleigh, and the kids. The band, if things ever went south between them. Not to mention all those people on their payroll, dependant on their _brotherhood_ to make a living. No. He wasn’t making a mistake. This was exactly how it had to be.

God, to think this was the closest they had ever come to talking about it, and yet they’d barely even scratched the surface. But it seemed they didn’t have to. Somehow, Bono appeared to understand him implicitly. And looking at him now, Edge found, as he often had over the years, that he could almost read Bono’s mind.

_Back into your body, B. Come back so I can try and make it all okay again._

But what hope did he have of fixing it all, when he was the one to throw the spanner in the works?

Finally, Bono returned to the moment, letting out a soft sigh that Edge likely would have missed, had he not been waiting for it. Another beat of silence followed, then Bono turned and offered Edge a faint smile before saying, “It never really occurred to me, bringing it up with her. I never thought anything would—you know I’ve rarely thought about the consequences with the things that mattered most. I just follow my heart.”

“I know. I know. And I’ve always admired that, really, I have. But it’s different this time, you know? There’s too much at stake here. Too many people who could get hurt. And I’m including us in that group of people.”

“I honestly don’t know how to do this.” Bono choked out a strange little laugh. “This was a mistake. I thought—I don’t know. I didn’t think, I suppose. I just . . . rushed. I just kept thinking . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know, Edge. I have no fucking idea—you, you’re looking to how this will affect our future, but all I can do is focus on the now. That’s all I wanted, Edge, that’s all I could ever think to want. Focus on what’s happening in the present, because fuck whatever awaits us in the future, right? God, I’m such a fuck-up.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Sorry.” Glancing back towards the water, Bono breathed deeply through his nose. And again, squeezing his eyes closed tightly this time. “I’m sorry.”

“Bono, don’t.”

The silence that followed hung far too heavy for Edge’s liking, yet he knew it was needed. And it would pass. Eventually it would lift, and they would continue on talking through it like adults, or Bono would just walk away. He was well within his rights to do such a thing, too, but more than anything Edge hoped that he wouldn’t. It would hurt too much.

Ripping off a band-aid? Try amputating a fucking leg. Or gouging out your own eyes before taking a soothing bath filled with acid. And that was only on his side. He had no idea what it was like to be on the receiving end.

As the silence continued he tried to focus his mind, to come up with a way to fix things and fast, but every half-idea that appeared was quickly steamrolled over by the memory of Bono dragging himself down. His voice had come through thick and fast, before cracking—in a way that would haunt Edge for many nights to come—only on the word _fuck_. He wasn’t a fuck-up. He was the complete opposite of that, yet somehow Edge had made him believe such a thing.

There was only one fuck-up in the area, and it sure as hell wasn’t Bono. Here Edge was, preaching away about what was right, what was the proper thing to do, and yet the way Bono had said _want_ only a minute prior had caused a familiar thrill to rush through his body.

_He wanted me. Wanted. Me._ What a sanctimonious fuck-up he was. _Get past it, Bono, just like I have, but quickly now before you remind me of exactly what I’m missing out on._ If there ever came a moment in the future where Bono turned to thank him for making the noble choice for the both of them, only one response would suffice, and that of course would be something along the lines of _I deserve no gratitude, only your everlasting judgement because man, if you only knew the shit that was going down in my mind during that noble time . . ._

The silence was abruptly broken when Bono, his voice sounding as worn as it did post-concert, slightly inclined his head towards Edge and asked, “You’re going to marry her then?”

Edge slowly nodded. “I am. I mean, I want to. I do. Got a ring and everything.”

“Good, that’s good. She’s practically perfect . . . you two deserve each other.”

Edge didn’t answer. How could he, after hearing that? He just kept his gaze fixed firmly on his clasped hands, wanting to reach out and rub his neck, or touch Bono, or strangle himself to be free of the situation—all those fun things that would get him nowhere fast—but it felt like an offense to move even a little. This was no longer his conversation to lead. Any further attempt to do so might just do further damage.

“What do we do now?”

“I don’t know,” Edge said. He really had no idea.

“Do we talk about it?”

“I don’t know.”

Bono merely nodded, though after a few seconds of silence his face crumpled, yet no tears came. There was still a threat of them appearing, however, and Edge knew that just wouldn’t do. He wasn’t sure he would be able to bear witness to such a thing. Not now.

A change of mind forever seemed on the distant horizon, and a crying Bono always left Edge in search of the quickest fix. And then, when the hurt was taken care of, it was often tempting to go looking for the culprit and take care of them too. Sometimes, Edge had. Sometimes, he’d wanted to use more than just angry words to take them down. But he was the culprit this time around, and barring walking into the lake to drown himself, Edge couldn’t currently think of a way to take himself out. He had to put a stop to it all, before it even started.

However, the only thoughts coming to mind sounded neither good nor worthwhile to his cause, but he knew that he was in no shape currently to best them.

Hesitantly, he said, “Maybe it’s just one of those things. Something that happened, that you can’t help but look back on even as you move forward. And eventually, the thought of looking back slips your mind one day, and then another, and soon enough it just becomes this distant memory that returns only when you . . .  I don’t know, walk into a cathedral?”

Having said his piece, Edge uncapped his bottle of Perrier and took a drink while reflecting on the bullshit that he’d just sprouted. There had been some sort of message buried in among the rambling, he was almost sure.

Bono’s voice rang hollow as he said, “Right,” his hand coming down to briefly rest on Edge’s knee. It was a gesture that would have been normal between them only a few days prior. They were constantly touching one another, after all, and not until recently had Edge thought much of it.

But now, even if it had been simply meant to grab his attention, it was hard not to think of the touch as anything but intimate. And given how swiftly Bono withdrew his hand, Edge knew he wasn’t alone in the sentiment.

He’d held that hand in the cathedral. It had turned into a lifeline when he had been close to drowning. “But Edge, we’re always together, working or otherwise. How the hell do you expect _this_ to slip our minds when there’s a constant reminder at our side?”

It was a damn good question, one that Edge didn’t have a ready-made answer for. He took another sip from his drink as Bono looked at him expectantly, then recapped the bottle and set it down next to his hip, keeping his gaze on the beautiful lake ahead. He couldn’t look to his left. There were things Bono needed from him that he just couldn’t give. And if he looked to that need dead-on, Edge knew there was a chance he might just crumble. It was a dramatic thought, but then their entire day had been full of such drama, and he had no doubt that was to continue for at least a while longer. This would be one of the hardest things they had ever been forced to endure.

It wasn’t the end of the world, no, because at least that would have an obvious conclusion.

A serious threat had been made to their relationship, and it was hard to pretend as though everything was going to be just dandy when he currently had no idea. It was as though Edge had been presented with Schrödinger's cat all wrapped up nicely in a box, and eventually he would have to take a peek inside and either start planning funeral arrangements or add cat food to the shopping list, but currently he just couldn’t work up the courage to take off that lid.

_Can we survive this?_

 


	14. Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves* HIYA, here we are, back at it again, and as always I am sorry it took so long. I am grateful to all who have stuck with me throughout this whole thing, I love you all, and I hope you enjoy this xxx

It wasn’t right. They just didn’t do silence like this. Okay, maybe once or twice in the past they had, but Edge knew those instances must have been early on—very early on, when they were still figuring one another out, and he had been too quiet, too unsure of himself while Bono had been a tornado.

There must have been at least a couple of fights after which such silence had followed, before someone had broken it the only way a teenage boy knew how to manage an uncomfortable situation: awkwardly. But that had been a lifetime ago. They knew each other now, every tick, every idiosyncrasy, which button to press to bring forth the anger, and the right soothing tone to make it all go away again.

They knew how to avoid the sort of silence that now lingered like a dying heartbeat between them. They thrived in the companionable kind, or thoughtful, or that unexplainable quiet during which all he could think to do was listen to the way that Bono drew in each breath of his, in and out, even or not, constantly changing, causing Edge to marvel at how truly lucky they were to have been forced together by God, Larry, and the ever-expanding universe.

They could do silence together so fucking well. But this? It was unimaginable. Excruciating. And there didn’t appear to be an end in sight. Edge had no idea how to break it. He wasn’t even sure if he should try. It was because of him. How the hell could he even think to speak up first, when he was the one who had caused it all?

Any uncomfortable silences that transpired between them in the foreseeable future, any pain or heartache or _what if?_ moments . . . he would have to take the blame for all of it. If Bono wanted to scream at him, then Edge would gladly take that too. He would take all of the anger that might be thrown his way, all that heartache and disappointment, because it was better for him to be left weighed down by any of that than Bono.

It was the only way to handle the situation. And Edge hoped to God that Bono would reach that same conclusion, although even as the thought sprung to mind he knew how ridiculous it was.

Of course Bono would never think such a thing. It was Bono.

He could throw out the angry words when there was little weight behind them, or when there was more than enough weight to justify such bitterness, but rarely did those words come when the hurt was so goddamn deep. He knew how to internalize shit in a way that would surprise even the most thorough of journalists, those who had followed them from the word go, who ran articles in which they proclaimed Bono to be oh-so-witty and clever, who pointed out all the ways he hadn’t changed before contradicting themselves a few paragraphs later. He had changed, of course he had, how could such an overwhelming and astonishing amount of fame _not_ change a person?

But he was still just that boy from Dublin, they would insist before immediately forgetting themselves. He was still just so fucking _human_.

It was all that Edge could focus on sometimes. The flaws that made Bono who he was, the cracks that he was determined to hide away from the world, from even those who knew him better than he knew himself.

He could roll out of bed on the wrong side for three days straight before leaping out with the widest of grins on that fourth day, full of insightful soundbites about the glory of the universe and all those precious souls who were lucky enough to wake up each and every morning. Rarely did his socks match when he was away from home. He had no idea how to let go of something that was well past saving. A song, a friendship, a sock with a hole so large that his big toe could break on through to say hello. He wasn’t wearing socks now, though, just sandals.

Why the hell was Edge thinking about _socks_ at such a time? He didn’t know. He just didn’t know anything anymore. His neck hurt, his chest hurt. He didn’t know what to say, what to think.

All he could focus on was Bono’s breathing at his side, and the way that it was constantly changing. Shaky to smooth, drawn out before picking up steam. He was building up to something. Or he wasn’t. Perhaps he was just breathing. It was something they all had to do. Life depended on that one important function. Life would go on, as long as they both remembered to just breathe.

Out of nowhere, Bono piped up to say, “We never got around to eating,” his voice sounding as worn as those pairs of socks he was so desperate to cling to. Edge had almost given up hope that he would ever hear Bono speak again, and the suddenness of it all made him jump a little. But when the surprise wore off he was left with nothing but the words that Bono had said to him, and the look that he couldn’t quite bring himself to meet. There had been so many things he’d expected Bono to say, words that he had almost been convinced he could handle being thrown his way. Food being mentioned as a way of breaking the ice had never crossed Edge’s mind as a possibility. Not in a million years. But now that it was out there and he could think it over . . . well, it certainly was a Bono kind of thing to say. “I—I think I just forgot that I was even hungry, you know?”

Any talk of lunch that had transpired between them seemed like a distant memory to Edge. Something that might have happened in another lifetime. _Lunch? Now that’s a word I’ve not heard in a long time_ , Obi-Wan would say. How the hell had it only been a few hours since the cathedral? If he closed his eyes he was still able to recall the exact way that Bono had squeezed his hand, _here, right here_ _, I’m herelovehere, focus . . ._

And Edge knew that if he allowed himself to just drift away, the feel of Bono’s lips against his, his hand, his breath, the musty air of the cathedral, the waves breaking against the shore, all of it would come screaming right back into the forefront of his mind. His touch, his kiss, they were things that remained firmly in the present. But everything that surrounded those two things? They were forever lost to the past. So much had happened in those few short hours. _Life_ had happened. Life had changed. They both had changed. How could two people have aged so much in a single day?

Edge had been hungry too, at some point before everything had turned to shit. They had both forgotten together. It was funny how life could be so distracting sometimes—funny, in the sort of way that made Edge consider drowning himself in a fucking toilet. But now that food had been mentioned as a thing that could happen, he realized that the feeling was still there, although not even close to gnawing at his stomach like it did sometimes. No, it was simply playing in the background like elevator music. Bono was still looking at him. There was expectation there, even if Edge couldn’t quite meet his gaze. A response was needed. God, at least something was needed to get them off the ground and away from all this debilitating silence.

“Do you want some lunch?”

“It’s far too late for lunch,” Bono said. His voice was quiet, yet it still managed to floor Edge. He had no idea if Bono meant it was too late in the day, or in general. And he tried to be positive, he did, but it just wasn’t the day for it. _It’s far too late for anything to change between us_ was all that he heard in the immediate aftermath. _It’s far too late for excuses._

Bono was the first to pull himself up and off the ground, clutching his half-empty bottle of Perrier as though he was worried someone was going to try and snatch it away from him. He didn’t start for the cottage until Edge was well on his way, however, and he stayed silent as he followed a few steps behind. It was only when they were both inside that Edge couldn’t avoid it a moment longer. He couldn’t stand it. He had to know, had to see if any of those exit wounds had started to heal, even if it killed him.

They hadn’t.

 _You did this. You could have avoided all of it, if you just said yes_ , the press would say to him only after the band had crumbled in front of his eyes. _The band? Is that all you care about?_

_Of course it isn’t, but—_

_But what? But nothing. You did this, it’s all on you, Edge. How can you think about the band at a time like this? Have you even stopped to consider the reason why it all fell apart?_

_I know. Believe me, I know better than anyone why it fell apart. It’s all on me, I know it is._

_You can’t even say it, can you? You can’t even say his name._

_I don’t want to think about it. Why are you making me think about it?_

_We’re journalists, it’s what we do. We push and push until the hurt is revealed, and then we go and gleefully run our headlines without a second thought of the damage we have done. Surely you must know how it works by now?_

_. . . I do, but—_

_No buts, you know why we’re here. So let’s bring up that hurt, shall we? Why don’t you tell us exactly how you destroyed your relationship with Bono?_

_I don’t want to think about it. Don’t make me think about it, please._

_You’re weak,_ they would chant _. You’re weak you’re weak weakweakyoudidthisyoudidthisyou—_

Bono had left him standing there in the threshold. It hadn’t been anger that Edge had seen on his face, it hadn’t even been hurt. No, it had been something that rarely emerged. There were only three times that Edge could recall seeing that expression on Bono’s face. Three times in twenty or so years. There had to be some word in the English language that was stronger than vacant. The look on his face, the distance in his eyes . . . empty. It wasn’t strong enough, but it was all Edge had. He didn’t want to follow Bono into the kitchen. He couldn’t stand the thought of spending another moment without seeing a smile. But lunch had been promised. He had a duty to serve. He had to make lunch. It was a task that he could currently liken to offering up a band-aid to someone who had just been disemboweled, but what other choice did he have?

In the kitchen he found Bono standing in front of the fridge with the door open, just staring at all the food inside. Edge had been there before. Early in the morning, late at night, bored out of his mind and not really hungry, not really anything, just looking for something to pass the time. He would wonder during those times: did he want food? Or was it a drink he was after? How could he create something out of nothing? Why was there never any fucking chocolate in the house?

Oh, he knew it all far too well. “What do you feel like?”

“I don’t know,” Bono replied. “I don’t know.”

“Well, how hungry are you?”

Bono shrugged before letting the fridge door swing shut. “Whatever you think is right.”

It wasn’t an answer to what Edge had asked, nor was it something that he wanted to hear. He was so close to turning desperate. “We could do sandwiches?” he tried.

“Whatever you want, Edge.”

Edge wanted to jump out of a fucking window. He wanted to leap into the lake and stay there until the carp dragged him under. He wanted to change his mind, if only to make it all right between them once more. He didn’t really want sandwiches. It all seemed so goddamn hard. Sandwiches? How did one even _begin_ to prepare sandwiches? There were just too many choices to be made. He could think of at least three different cheeses that he might be able to use. Would they go with meat, or just stick with salad? And if they went meatless, then what salad would they choose? Was mayonnaise or chutney the right choice? Or something else? _Whatever you want_ were three words that created an overwhelming and herculean task that Edge currently was not equipped to deal with. At all. But someone had to. “Sandwiches it is.”

They ate at the dining table with a glass of white wine each to wash everything down. Edge didn’t touch his. He picked at his sandwich. It was almost time to start thinking about what they were going to have for dinner, if they even ended up having anything at all. They were closer to dinnertime than they were lunch, so maybe a glass of wine and a sandwich would be enough. Both were already too much for him, but somewhere along the way Bono had found his appetite. He stared at the table as he chewed his food, but held Edge’s gaze when the wine glass came up to meet his lips. “Are you okay?” he asked only when his glass was almost empty.

Edge very nearly choked. On what? On nothing. Just air. The very same air that kept him alive each and every day had tried to fucking kill him. No. No, it wasn’t the air he should blame. It was the question. Three words that were so unexpected that he didn’t know what to do with them. How the hell was he supposed to reply to _that_? “Uh . . . what?”

Bono’s lips thinned, but he didn’t break eye contact. “I asked if you were okay.”

 _I’m fine_ had become such an automatic response recently that it nearly broke on through before Edge could give any proper thought to how he should proceed. Thankfully, he managed to bite his tongue just in time. There were a few ways in which he could respond—although all the _right_ ways were yet to spring to mind—but that wasn’t it. Pretending to be fine when he wasn’t would only do more damage. It might even bring forth the anger that had to appear at some point, the anger that Edge wasn’t ready to handle yet. He needed time still. He just needed some time. “I don’t want you to . . . to concern yourself with how—”

“Why not?” Bono slumped back in his seat, but it seemed as though there was nothing in the entire room that currently interested him more than Edge’s face. His gaze was unnerving. It would have almost been bearable had he been wearing his sunglasses. Edge was tempted to look away, but he knew exactly what would happen if he did. He knew how Bono reacted to such an insult. Although he barely knew this Bono.

“B, look—”

“Surely you must know by now . . .” Bono trailed off, shaking his head before finally breaking the gaze. Edge missed the connection immediately. He could admit that to himself. It wasn’t a sign of giving in, it was just what it was.

“What? What am I supposed to know?”

Again, Bono shook his head, bringing his hand up to rub at his mouth. It wasn’t enough to keep the smile at bay, a smile that looked more like a reflex than anything. A defensive move. There was cynicism there. Pity too, although it wasn’t directed towards Edge. “Everything you do is my concern, Edge. Everything. How have you not figured that out yet?” The corner of his lip quirked, but there was no amusement to be found in his eyes when he glanced back up. “I mean, that’s the whole reason for all of this, isn’t it?”

Edge’s neck hurt. His chest felt close to bursting. “It’s not the whole reason.”

“No, I suppose it’s not,” Bono quietly agreed. “But it still played a pretty significant part, didn’t it?”

Edge didn’t have a response. To say either _yes_ or _no_ would be playing with fire, and he knew that he wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. “I’m not okay,” he said instead. Three simple words that made him feel so fucking weak. He was supposed to be the strong one. He was the one who had thrown gasoline onto the flames. “Is that what you want to hear from me?”

“No.”

“Why not? I thought you’d be—”

“Glad?”

“No! No, just—just . . .” Edge drew in a deep breath. He had hoped that it would be enough to steady him. It wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t. How could he be calm when Bono was across the table, _looking_ at him like that? “I thought that it would help, hearing it. That I’m not okay. Because I’m not, alright? I’m not.”

“How would that help?” There was no pity left in Bono’s smile when it emerged. It was still one of the saddest things that Edge had seen in quite some time. He could feel that desperation inching closer, bit by bit, itching at his palms, scratching at his throat. An explosion was on the horizon. He just didn’t know who would get there first. “All I want in life is for the people I care about to be happy. And you’re at the top of the list. You, Ali and my girls.”

“Where do you sit on that list?”

“I’m not going to be on my own list now, am I?”

“You should be.”

“Don’t.” Bono shook his head. “Stop trying to deflect this conversation towards the way that you want it to go.”

“I’m not!” Edge exclaimed. “You want me to be happy in life? That’s great, Bono, it means the fucking world to me, and I’m sorry if that sounds sarcastic right now, because it’s not. But you know what? That’s what I want for you too. You’re at the top of _my_ list. And that’s why it kills me to see you like this, alright? I’m not okay because you’re so goddamn unhappy right now. And I am not okay because it’s my fucking fault for saying no to you. I just, I thought that maybe it would help to hear that we are in this together, that we’re both not okay, because then you would know how serious I was about—about _everything_. I didn’t make this decision lightly, B. You know that, right?”

He expected silence, and it was exactly what he got. It lasted at least twenty seconds, and Bono spent the entirety of it looking down at his hands while Edge stared at him, waiting for a change.

Something had to give eventually. He didn’t know why, or how it would eventuate. He just knew that a change had to come. And when it finally did, it happened in pieces. He watched as Bono drew in a shaky breath, as he rubbed at his eye, at the space between his eyebrows—his touch so heavy that it briefly smoothed away his frown lines and left a red mark in its wake—before dropping his hand from Edge’s view. Any moment now, he was going to start rubbing his thigh. Edge didn’t have to see it happen to know that it would. He knew Bono. He knew so much about Bono that it scared him sometimes. He knew enough to anticipate the way that Bono would clench his jaw, half a second before he did.

“I know how hard it was for you,” Bono muttered. “But you still managed to do it anyway.”

Edge stared at him. _Look up_ , he wanted to say. _Look up at me so I know that you’ll actually hear this._ But Bono didn’t. He just kept watching his hands, and for the first time in hours Edge started to feel the unwelcome sensation of anger stir in his chest. He didn’t want to get mad. No good would come from him losing his temper. With that in mind, he tried to keep his voice even as he said, “One of us had to.”

Bono looked up at him. And his face, his eyes . . . everything about him in that one moment made Edge want to take it all back. Not just what he had last said, but _everything_. He had done this. It was all on him. _You’re weak you’re weak weakweakyoudidthisyoudidthisyoudidwhatwereyouthinking?_

The moment passed. It had to. He couldn’t just linger in such self-doubt. That was not the way for them both to move forward. “Bono,” he started without knowing what else to say. Maybe he didn’t have to say anything more. Bono had a talent for hearing everything that Edge wasn’t saying when only his name had been spoken.

“I don’t want to . . .” Bono choked out a laugh, shaking his head before bringing his hand up to cover his eyes at first, and then his mouth, muffling the frustrated cry that followed. “I’m tired, Edge, I’m so fucking tired, and I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Not right now. I’m going upstairs. Don’t follow me.”

He stood up so quickly that his chair almost went toppling to the ground, but as soon as he was on his feet the hesitation appeared to kick in. It only lasted for a moment, that one tiny moment where he searched Edge’s face, looking for the argument that might have been there, it might even have been on the tip of Edge’s tongue— _I’m coming with you, I don’t care what you say_ —but they both knew that it wasn’t going to be said. And then Bono was gone, walking across the room and up the stairs, his footsteps thumping loudly through the quiet of the room. Edge expected to hear a door slam upstairs, but it didn’t come.

Silence surrounded him once more. But now he was alone. He didn’t have a distraction at his side, nor a need to come up with something to break the silence that was smothering them both. All he had left was his thoughts. That was a problem. That was a huge problem, because currently? Edge had no idea _what_ to think.

He sat there at the kitchen table for a while longer, staring down at the carcass of his sandwich like he half-expected to find all the answers he needed hidden between two soggy slices of bread. Well, not expected . . . hoped. He hoped that the answers would be found there. Because that would make life so much easier. And it wouldn’t have been the first time someone found weird shit hidden in their food before. The face of Jesus was forever appearing in the most unlikely of places, after all.

No answer came. All he continued to see was a sad little meal that had barely resembled something appetizing in the first place. He couldn’t finish it. Not the food. The wine, though? It had been untouched for far too long. He hadn’t thought he’d needed it initially. A huge life choice had been made—the right choice—and he had been . . . well, not entirely comfortable, but committed to that choice, and no person sticking to their guns about a morally correct decision needed to drink. It had been a cute notion. Something to cling to, when he didn’t have much else going for him. But now? Now he had to drink. He _needed_ to drink, otherwise he was going to fucking scream.

He took their dishes into the kitchen once his drink was completely empty, stacking them in the sink before refilling his glass. A slight buzz was clearly required to tackle the dishes—the whole two plates, a glass, one sharp knife and one far blunter, and a cutting board that he’d used to shape up a meal that wasn’t quite lunch nor dinner.

So this was where he was at in life. Overwhelmed at the prospect of washing six items. If the fans could see him now. If the _press_ could see him now. _Delete that last thing about The Edge being seemingly good at everything_ , they would say. _Asshole can’t even handle a few fuckin’ dishes. He doesn’t even know the_ right _way to turn his best friend down. What an absolute wank._

It was the lake he was drawn to once the dishes were taken care of. The scene of the crime, so to speak. Edge wasn’t sure why he’d needed to go back there. That voice in the back of his head had said little more than _go, go now, you idiot, what are you waiting for?_ As soon as he was standing over the water, however, that voice offered up a reason for it all. He finished his glass of wine as he stood there, watching the water ripple in a way that said so much about what was going on beneath the surface, and he waited. But Bono didn’t come. It wasn’t a surprise, really, and it shouldn’t have been a disappointment. But it was, in a way. Edge wasn’t even sure why the hope had emerged. What would he do if Bono did suddenly materialize at his side, there by the lake? Let him down gently again? Deepen the wounds? There was really nothing else that Edge could do currently.

A fix was a long way off. They just had to wait it out. It was the only thing that they could do to mend their relationship. The only right thing to do, that is. There was another way, of course. A quick fix. _I didn’t mean it_ , he might say in an alternate reality where quick fixes were all the rage. _To hell with what’s right, to hell with our families, let’s go for it!_ And Bono would smile, relief shining through as he fell into Edge’s arms, responding with _I knew it, I knew you would make everything right, Edge._

A quick fix never held anything together. It was only good in the short term. Duct tape could only do so much until a professional had to come in and replace it with a permanent solution that would hold for years and years to come. He had to keep focusing on the long-term goal. Family. The band. Love. Life. They were everything that Edge needed to take care of. And he knew that there was only room enough for Bono to fit into three of those four categories. He was family, yes. He was also a huge part of Edge’s life, no one could dispute that. And of course, there was no band without him.

Three things that had been established long before love was ever brought into the equation. They couldn’t be shifted. They couldn’t be shrunk to fit a fourth thing alongside. There just wasn’t enough room in Edge’s heart for any more. The answer would always reveal itself on the page as long as he approached everything in life mathematically. It was easy. He’d realized just how easy it all was earlier in the day, so why was he still deliberating over it? The answer was written on the page in fucking permanent ink. There was no turning back from that. Did he even want to try and turn back?

No.

No. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. It was all in the past now, he had to start looking to the future. That was something that he certainly could do, no problem.

Any minute now, he was going to start looking forward.

Any minute now.

The ladder caught his eye as he trudged back towards the cottage, and Edge had to laugh—a strangled little sound that wasn’t how he usually went about laughing, yet somehow managed to match exactly how he was feeling on the inside. It didn’t seem fair to start pointing fingers or placing blame on anyone or any thing, but still, a small part of him wanted to do just that, to walk up to the ladder, glare at it and shout _J’accuse, Ladder!_

But it was obvious, if he thought about it for longer than a couple of seconds, that it wasn’t really the ladder’s fault. No, it was the birds up in the roof, twittering away, forcing him to lie about their existence, forcing Bono out of his own bed and into Edge’s. Fucking birds, who needed them? What were they good for, besides celebrating a new day? _Why do you think they sing?_ Edge had half a mind to climb up that ladder and scream until they flew away for good. That would solve at least one problem. It wasn’t a total fix, but it was something.

It wasn’t even something. It wasn’t the ladder to blame, nor was it the birds, nor was it even the waves breaking against the shore all those years ago. They had all just been contributing factors. There were only two people sharing the responsibility for their own actions, but Edge knew that he would never be able to blame Bono. And try as he might, he just couldn’t blame himself either. It was . . . life. A curveball had been thrown their way, how else could have they reacted?

It was just life.

Briefly, he considered taking the ladder down and putting it back where they had found it. Hide the evidence, get them right back to where they had been before everything had gone to shit. But given how the day had turned out, Edge just didn’t want to risk further injury. His neck was already in shambles, and he didn’t know why. He’d not done a damn thing to make it like that, not something he could remember anyway. It was just a day for everything to happen, no matter what he did. And with that in mind, Edge decided to leave the ladder where it was. Maybe he could try again tomorrow. Because given how the day had gone so far, he was pretty confident that somehow, _somehow_ he would manage to hurt himself while putting that ladder away. He wasn’t sure how it would happen, and on any other day it probably was not a thing that _could_ happen—basic ladder-related injuries weren’t something he heard about often . . . or ever, really—but with how life was currently going, Edge didn’t think that risking it was a wise idea. Tomorrow he would try. Things would be better then.

Tomorrow he would wake up and find they had both survived the night without incident, that it was possible to make it through the darkness. Tomorrow was something to look forward to. He had to keep telling himself that, because the more he did, the more he started to believe it as a truth instead of a fantasy.

It was far too quiet inside. No footsteps, no voice in the distance calling him or in his ear, talking so softly, as though Bono thought it a crime to raise his voice during such a moment. Generally, Edge liked quiet. Today, he could think of nothing more excruciating. It was tempting to step back outside. At least out there Mother Nature would talk to him. The trees, the birds—those goddamn birds—and the bees buzzing around the flowers. They loved to talk.

“He doesn’t remember,” Bob Hewson had told Edge one evening, causing Bono to roll his eyes and turn away, the look on his face saying _here we go again_ better than his mouth ever could. “He doesn’t remember talking to the bees.”

“And why would I?” Bono had shot back. “I was a baby! Memory doesn’t work like that, people don’t remember—”

“You were bigger than a baby,” Bob had snapped before turning to Edge once more. “Two or three he was, out there in the garden, picking up bees on his finger and talking to them. He wasn’t a baby. You weren’t a _baby_.”

“Some might say I still am. Who else is telling me no but you?”

It was all Edge could think about when he heard bees buzzing away in any garden. That conversation, and the mental image that always followed. Little Bono, tottering through his backyard, already desperate to make a connection with anything that gave him the time of day. There were ways that he had changed throughout the years, but in that respect, he really was still that boy from Dublin.

Edge had to stop. He really had to stop thinking for a while. Jesus, he needed a distraction. Something to draw his attention away from that one particular person, because right now, every thought he had, even the most innocuous of ones, somehow could easily and quickly be traced right back to Bono. Even bees. _Especially_ the goddamn bees. But especially everything else that he had come across since Bono had left the room. Or since Edge had awoken that morning. Or since they had gotten into the car together and driven away from the world they knew, in search of the connection they had apparently lost somewhere along the way.

Yoga. Yoga had always helped clear his mind. And he desperately needed to clear his mind. It was better than a simple distraction, the only form of silence that he would be glad to encounter today. Yoga was actually a good idea. Far better than drinking himself into a stupor—Edge’s second option. He could do with some calm. Find his centre. Breathe. Three things that were desperately needed.

“And what’s that move called?” Bono had asked with that smile on his face, ready to take the piss if the wrong answer was returned.

“It’s called fuck off, Bono,” Edge had fired back. It had been the right answer, clearly, as all Bono had done was laugh, his eyes continuing to dance as he leaned in the doorway and simply watched Edge try to concentrate on his moves. Bono was rarely an unwelcome audience, yet that time his presence had been a distraction that Edge just hadn’t been able to look past.

“Done already? That’s a pity. I was enjoying the show.”

Maybe some people could concentrate while doing yoga with such a distraction around. But not Edge. He hadn’t been able to that day. And he already knew he wouldn’t be able to now. He could try, but it would be a waste of time. Bono didn’t need to be watching from the doorway to distract Edge. It was all there in his mind.

There was little else that he could think to do. The drinking idea was tempting, yes, but drunk Edge sometimes made choices that sober Edge disapproved of and then some. It didn’t seem like the wisest plan when Bono had created a rhythm between them just by squeezing his hand, when they had kissed only a few hours beforehand. No, drinking away his problems was definitely a terrible idea.

Sober Edge knew right from wrong, and understood when a decision was final. Drunk Edge was a fucking idiot.

Eventually, Edge reached that _fuck it_ moment that inevitably had to happen during a time of crisis. He shut away Mother Nature and locked the door behind him before heading upstairs, determined to climb into bed and hide for as long as he needed. An hour. Two hours. A day. A year. However long he needed. Before he could shut himself away completely, however, Edge thought it best to visit the bathroom first. A year was a long time between toilet breaks, after all.

It was only after walking out of the bathroom that he dared to look toward Bono’s bedroom. The door was closed, of course. He never would have imagined it being any other way. Not today. A small part of him had hoped, though. _Come in, Edge, let’s talk about this like adults. I’m not mad, I’m not even hurt, I just want us to be on the same page here_. What page was that? Currently Edge suspected that they each had a differing opinion on where they should be. And that was alright. Bono had every right to his reaction. A shock to the system, a day gone wildly different to how he’d figured it might. He had every right to be hidden away behind a closed bedroom door. He would come out when he was ready. When he wanted to talk. Or just before starvation started to really kick in, whichever came first.

A closed door had to open eventually. It would. And when it did, Edge would be ready. He was almost sure, anyway. Christ, what if he wasn’t and made everything even worse somehow? Was it even possible to make everything worse? They were already submerged in shit, could they really continue on until they were drowning in it? He hoped not. The fucking mental image . . .

He wanted to hide away from it all. He wanted to knock on Bono’s door and demand that they sort it all out right then and there, and end their discussion in a hug that was just a hug, nothing more. A simple friendly hug that would prove to each other that they could still do this, they could interact the same way that they’d done for over twenty years, with a quick ease and familiar affection. To hide, Edge knew, would be giving in to weakness, but to barge through a closed door and start making demands was just asking for trouble that neither of them needed.

He left his own door open before falling against the unmade bed. An open door meant _come in_ not _leave_ , and if Bono wanted to talk then he could. If he didn’t, then that was fine too. Edge would still be able to hear his every movement as he walked away. An open door was a fucking brilliant idea.

It had been a long day. It had been such a _looong_ day on too little sleep, and soon enough Edge was melting into the mattress, his muscles congratulating him for making the wise choice of coming to relax for a while. He was sore, aching in strange places, in ways that he’d not quite realized until he’d stopped moving, and other ways that he’d been acutely aware of no matter what he did. His goddamn neck—was it _spasming_ now? It was. When had that started? And why? What the hell had he done to himself during the night?

His pillow propped his head up too high, and then too low when he readjusted it. There was no middle ground to be found. And that pain in his neck, the spasming that forced him to shift and shift again in search of an angle that made it stop, that pain was now starting to radiate down to his shoulder blade. He was twitching there. Great. Surely it must have been a punishment for . . . for everything. Because there was really no other explanation for it. It wasn’t like he’d done any strenuous activity since they had arrived—not physical, anyway. There had been plenty of mental activity that Edge would consider as being far too strenuous for one person to handle.

“Stress can wreak havoc on the body, you know,” that chiropractor of his had said all those years ago. “Whatever happens up there can have a negative effect on so many things. You just need to de-stress.”

It seemed like such a simple solution. De-stress! Why hadn’t Edge thought of that?

Sleep was never going to come this way. He couldn’t get comfortable. He couldn’t stop twitching and spasming. It felt like someone had knocked him over and then hastily tried to glue his shattered pieces back together before anyone came along to witness the carnage. And his brain, those thoughts of his, they just refused to leave him. _Focus on something else_ , he begged his mind, _anything else, no, not that, not that . . ._

He was twitching, spasming, turning again and again, searching for the perfect position, for that one specific thought that would make it all just fade away. Through the window he could see the clouds, the afternoon sky, a glorious blue that had been an inspiration for countless artists throughout the ages. He loved that blue. It had been an inspiration for him too. It was unavoidable, that blue, no matter where he looked it was still there, right there waiting to be noticed once more. They could fly through it, swim in it, turn to it when there was nothing else to keep them company, _would you look at that, Edge? Have you ever seen anything so fucking beautiful?_ He had. He knew blue. He knew beautiful, he could drown in it. _Look, Edge. God’s painting another masterpiece. Look up, look up, look at me, at me, here, right here, I’m herelovehere, focus . . ._

He jumped back to alertness when the bed dipped behind him. The blue was gone from the sky. Had he been asleep? Perhaps. He’d lost the blue. There was only darkness to be seen through the window now, the only light coming from the bedside lamp behind him, which Bono must have flicked on before sitting down. He’d come into the room on his own accord. But he wasn’t talking. He was just sitting there quietly, his even breathing revealing nothing about his current mental state. He couldn’t see Edge’s face, he hadn’t even tried to look.

Edge didn’t want to roll over, not yet. For all he knew, Bono might have thought he was still asleep, and was merely checking up on Edge at a time that he’d deemed safe to do so. A sneaky move. What Edge didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. There was probably plenty of shit that had happened over the years that Edge didn’t know about. It was probably better that way.

He didn’t see the sigh coming, nor was he able to anticipate Bono’s next move, although he should have. Why hadn’t he? He knew Bono. It wasn’t the first time he had sat down on a bed that Edge had been sleeping in, after all.

The bed let out a faint squeak as Bono shifted to stretch out alongside Edge, and when the touch came it wasn’t a surprise. His palm might have lingered against Edge’s back for only a few seconds, but it was still long enough to show both their hands. “I know you’re awake.”

“I know,” Edge muttered. “Hi.”

“Hi. Roll over, wouldya? I brought tea.”

“Oh.” Was he ready to roll over? Was he ready to get into it again? No. Not even close. But what choice did he have? Bono was already there, waiting for him. Bono had brought tea. He’d done the harder parts, all Edge had to do was roll over. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Makes up for all of the things that I did have to do at some point, but neglected to, I suppose.”

“. . . okay.”

He rolled over and found Bono wearing a tired smile that almost reached his eyes. “Hi,” Bono said again, offering Edge the steaming mug in his hand.

Edge pulled himself into a sitting position before taking the mug. After how the day had gone, he figured it was a good idea. First-degree burns on his chest and stomach didn’t really sound like something he wanted to experience. “Thank you.”

It wasn’t the best cup of tea he’d ever tasted, but who was he to complain? It was still hot, sweet and enough to shoo the bitter taste of sleep away, and Bono had made it without being prompted. After everything that had happened between them today, Bono had still wanted to bring him something nice. A peace offering of sorts. A gesture that made Edge feel guilty for not having done more. Yes, he had made Bono a sandwich, but it had been a sandwich that looked like roadkill. It was nearly impossible to ruin tea in such a way, and Bono hadn’t. He’d not even come close. It might not have been the best cup of tea that Edge had ever tasted, but it was still pretty damn good, considering. He took one more sip before setting the mug down on his bedside table.

Silence. Their old enemy. Bono wasn’t even looking at him. He was focused on the ceiling, a slight frown on his face. He didn’t glance over even when Edge turned to face him properly, or when Edge slithered back down to place his head back onto the pillow. Nothing changed. All they had between them was silence. Would they ever get past this? Or were they doomed to forever have such awkward moments mar all their conversations? It wasn’t them, they had known how to flow so well together for so long. If he screamed right now, how would Bono react?

He might have known once. He _had_ known. But now, Edge just wasn’t sure. He rubbed at his neck, the sigh slipping out before he even knew it was a possibility. Bono turned his head, his eyes searching for the briefest of moments before stopping to linger. They stared at each other until Edge had to look away.

“I’m sorry,” Bono said quietly. “I was . . . I’m a wanker.”

“What? No. No, you’re not.” Edge shook his head. He couldn’t believe it. First tea, and now this? “You have every right to be angry.”

“Do I?”

Somehow, Bono just kept on surprising him. It wasn’t a question that Edge had seen coming. It wasn’t something he knew how to answer, not in a million years. He wasn’t even entirely sure what Bono was really asking him.

“We’ll have to do something about those birds, you know,” Bono continued on in a tone that was almost breezy. “I don’t want to get woken up at dawn again.”

“We can switch rooms? They wouldn’t bother me, I don’t think.”

“Perhaps.”

“Or, I could . . . I mean, I know it’s dark now, but the ladder is still—”

“It doesn’t matter right now.” The smile that appeared on Bono’s face held so much warmth in it that Edge didn’t know how to react. He wanted to look away, but he also couldn’t stand the thought of doing such a thing. This was them. This was how it should be. They knew warmth, they dealt with warmth. He didn’t want to turn away and lose it again. “I’m not going to try and change your mind, Edge. I’ve been thinking it over. I’ve been thinking about a lot of things. I know it’s the right choice, and I know why you made it, okay? I’m not gonna try and change your mind, I just think it’s best we talk about it, you know? Clear the air.”

Edge paused.  “I thought we had—”

“No, I don’t mean us talking about our future, about why. I mean talking about our past. How . . . how we ended up here.”

It was too soon. Edge knew it. It was far too soon to start down that path. But he couldn’t say no. Not again. Not about this, anyway. He didn’t want to give Bono a reason to walk back out that door. “Maybe. Yeah.”

“Do you remember that night in Èze? Our summer of love?” Bono’s smile had turned faint. “Do you remember that night when we kissed?”

“. . . yes.”

“Do you remember what I said to you after?”

They both knew. How could they forget? “You told me that you had just wanted to try that.”

“I did. I did say that. And it was true, you know? I think I looked at you that night . . . I just couldn’t go another moment without knowing. I don’t know why. I wanted—”

“Bono—”

“No, _listen_. I need to tell you this, alright? Just listen to me. Please.”

Edge couldn’t say no. He couldn’t. This conversation was going to happen, no matter what. Now or later, Bono would make sure that it happened. Because God knows what it would mean for their friendship if it didn’t. It might have been too soon to go down this path, but it was better than the alternative. “Okay,” Edge said. “I’m listening.”

“When I saw you asleep on the balcony that morning, when I—I couldn’t remember ever studying you so intently as I did that morning, when I was sketching you. I remember,” Bono let out a quiet chuckle, “I remember your lips parting while I watched. I was so sure that you’d whispered something, that you were talking in your sleep, but I didn’t hear it. I kept looking, though, waiting for it to happen again. For your lips to move. And then I couldn’t look away. Your jaw, your mouth . . . I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, you know? I couldn’t stop wondering, the entire day. And then that night, I just . . . I wanted it. So much.” He shook his head. “But I’m not going to pretend as though that was the first time it had crossed my mind. I think I’d wanted it for years, before I even knew. I’m not stupid though.”

It was as though the breath had been knocked from Edge’s lungs. He could barely find it in himself to speak, yet he knew that he had to. Something had to be said. “No one is saying you are,” he managed.

“What I mean is, I know you wanted it too. I could sense it.”

He could disagree. He could lie. He could think of so many ways to hurt Bono further, to push him away. It wasn’t him, though. Edge just couldn’t deny Bono the truth a moment longer. “I did.”

Bono’s lip quirked. “The truth doesn’t change anything though, does it?”

“No.”

“It is what it is, and we have to deal with it. Somehow.”

“Bono—”

“I’m not trying to change your mind,” Bono murmured before leaning in. His lips were warm against Edge’s, his touch steady at his neck, a gentle kiss that lingered long after he pulled back. “I’m not, I swear.”

Edge stared.

“Closure, Edge. It’s a good thing to have. Isn’t it?”

“Is that what that was?”

“That’s all it was. I just—I think . . .” Bono tried, before giving up. He shook his head, but it wasn’t frustration that appeared on his face. It was something else, something that cut through Edge’s chest in a way that was almost brutal. He swore to himself, every time he had forced that expression onto Bono’s face, that it would be the last time. That it had to be the last time, because he couldn’t stand to see it again. There was always a next time, though. And here they were again. He didn’t dare pull away when Bono wrapped an arm around his stomach, his head coming down to settle against Edge’s chest. This was them. This was what they did sometimes, what they had done before everything went to shit. Bono wasn’t trying to change his mind. This was just comfort.

“I’m sorry,” Edge said when the silence became too much. “I wish that things were different.”

Bono nodded. “But they’re not.” There was no anger in his voice, nor resentment. He didn’t pull away. He wasn’t going to walk out that door. He was just content to stay where he was, even after knowing that’s all that it could be. They could do this. Edge had to believe.

They could survive this. They had to.


End file.
